On Grey Mornings
by littlesecret84
Summary: Bella's tryst with power made her infamous. Hounded and ashamed, she's back in Forks to start over again, but where do you find a clean slate when everyone who sees you already knows your biggest secret? AH, adult stuff.
1. Chapter 1

**WriteOnTime is still my beta. I'm not sure why she continues to put up with me.**

**Ciaobella27 doesn't tell me to shut up when I talk about Bella all day, and reads my stuff before you guys do. **

**They're awesome.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

July 2009

He's, like, a kid. He looks like he's old enough, and I'm pretty sure he's a year or two older than me, but I'm standing in the bedroom of a child. Posters, a guitar, clothes everywhere. An Xbox. Really? I stop looking around and look at him. He's blushing, opening his mouth to apologize; I feel like an ass. I smile and put my fingers over his mouth. I kiss him. He's surprised, but it's stupid, because why else am I here? It started with _'Wanna hang out after this?' 'Sure.' 'Cool, we can go to my place.' 'Okay.'_ He was hot and interesting. He was older than the rest of the college kids home for summer vacation, partying hard in someone's parents' house. Why was I there? Right, to party. To do normal things. Drink. Smoke. Have some fun. But Jake was annoying, taking stupid pictures of me on his friend's camera until I had to flip him off and ask Edward if he wanted to leave. So we drove here. His place is his parents' place. Of course. He has a separate entrance, making him so awesome and cool. Why does he still live here? I ask too many questions that I won't repeat out loud.

His mouth is hot. His hands are warm and strong and on my back and between my legs. It's too bright in here. I ask him to turn off the lights. I push him against the wall. I'm on my knees. My jeans are tight around my thighs, like, really tight. I haven't been wearing jeans in a while, and I didn't expect this.

He looks so surprised. What else are we here for? I run a finger down his zipper. I like the feeling. My hands are on him. I can do things really, really fast. You can time me. He gasps when I lick him. He didn't expect this. I'm glad. He's eager and excited, and his mouth is hanging open, his fists are clenched, his arms are sexy, young. He moves until I'm kneeling between him and the wall, his hands flat against it, way above me. They're not on the back of my head. They're not in my hair. They're not pushing, controlling. His voice is soft and deep when he says things I can't quite make out. No southern drawl. No 'sweetie' or 'hurry' or 'what was that?' or 'shhh'. When he comes it's quick and unexpected, and he's shaking, and he slams his hand against the wall. Panting. Looking down at me. Then I'm off the floor and in his arms and he kisses me.

What is this?

My heart beats faster than it has in a while. This. This is what I love. The burn and thrill. I let him move against me and kiss me and throw me onto his bed. He stares at me as he slides his pants all the way off. I watch him, lying flat on my back, my knees up, legs spread, fingers on my button and zipper. He watches me take off my jeans. I lie back again, open my legs as wide as they can go, he takes off his shirt, I take off mine, and he's on top of me. "You're so hot," he tells me. He has me naked so fast that I don't have time to freak out. I don't even have time to wonder how long it's been since I've had sex. Real sex. Not bodies moving and fingers exploring and mouths everywhere. Actual sex. Oh man, I'm excited. And he's so warm and heavy, and his skin is delicious, and I try different things. Bites and licks and scratches, and he doesn't complain. He's rough right back, and I'm rougher, and he's a mess. Looking at my face, at the floor, looking so confused. "What?" "You know". No, I don't know. And then I'm watching him deal with a condom. His hands are shaking. His dick is big and hard, and now I'm scared. What if I suck at this? What if it's been too long? I whimper when he pushes inside me. I hug him to me, hold him, and then I let him move and move. He kisses me and pushes me back on the mattress, holds my legs, and moves me around, and does what he wants, and it all feels good. His face tells me he loves it. I feel wonderful. Hot. When he starts making noises and telling me how good I am, I feel confident, sexy; I move on top of him. He stares at my chest, touches it, holds my hips, rocks me. I scream, and I didn't expect to come so fast. He's still inside me, and he's coming, pushing up hard and fast. Then he's holding me, playing with my hair, kissing my face.

"Um."

"Yeah?" he whispers against my cheek.

"I should go."

"Why?"

"My parents… I can't do sleepovers."

He chuckles and I like how he feels, so I snuggle up against him, I push my face into his chest.

"It's only midnight," he points out. "Surely you can stay out until one, maybe two. Do you have a curfew, Bella Swan?"

"I'm twenty-two, asshole," I say with a laugh. Is he funny, too? Take him out of this room and out of Forks, and he could be a catch.

"So stay."

"Okay, just for a little bit."

I'm lying here naked with a man I barely know. I want to ask him if he was born and raised here. He knows my dad. He knows Jake. He was a senior when my family moved to Forks. I was a sophomore. I don't remember him. He said he doesn't remember me. Then college happened. Then the internship happened. Now all of that is over. Now I'm back before I move away again for grad school. I make stupid plans in my head to spend days with him (does he even work?). I want to sleep here in his bed (I hope he's single). Then I'll leave and he won't care, because I don't think guys usually do. I think maybe I should spend the night here to get the point across to my parents that I'm an adult, I can do what I want. I've been an adult for a long time now, they don't realize this, but I'm not a child. If I stay here tonight, I can stay out any other night. Okay, fine. I'll stay. I won't tell him I'm staying, I'll just kiss him and we'll have sex again, and then we'll fall asleep.

"You're tired," he says. "Just stay here tonight, you'll figure out what—"

"Yeah, I think I should stay."

He's kissing me again and my legs and arms are wrapped around him. It's dirtier this time. Louder. He gives me something to sleep in. He brings me a bottle of water and asks if I'm hungry. I tell him 'no', and we don't have much to say. It's quiet, almost awkward. He apologizes for not having an extra toothbrush. He reads a little before he sleeps. He's a little strange. There are pieces of an old sticker half scratched off on the side of his dresser. He's a democrat. I laugh. Poor kid. He wants to know what's up, why I'm laughing. I point to what I've been staring at.

"That sucked," I say.

"Yeah, yeah it did."

"But he's not so bad…"

"Did you ever get to meet him?" Edward asks.

"Yeah."

"Major douchebag?"

"He's not so bad," I repeat.

"Are you a Republican?"

"Me? No." I'm nothing, really.

"How could you stand it? Working there around those people?"

"It was pretty awesome, actually." My cheeks are burning. This is where I need to tell my stories, this is where I burn with that need, where I'm about to explode. But not this time. I don't think I want to tell Edward anything.

"Well," he starts, "that's good, I guess."

"I'm tired."

"Yeah, goodnight."

"Goodnight."

He kisses me goodnight like he knows me. I push him away, trying to be subtle, but I also want him to know I'm pushing him away. But as soon as he's asleep, I move back against his chest. It's nice like this. I think about things when I close my eyes. Secrets and lies and an office far, far away. Then I think about Edward. I want to have breakfast with him tomorrow. Walk around. Be around people. He'll hold my hand. Maybe kiss me. I wish he didn't live here. I wish he was someone. Something. I'm better than this. But this is nice. I'm glad my eyes are closed. I can imagine I'm not in a boy's room. I can imagine Edward wearing a shirt and cufflinks and a tie I can take off. This isn't me, but this is nice. I should stop thinking. I can sleep well here. And I do. And it's the last peaceful night for months and months. Because the next day, a phone call changes everything. I leave Forks. I leave Washington. I regret not explaining things to my parents before my flight. I regret taking that picture the night before, in which I'm flipping off Jake with a stupid smirk on my face. That picture now defines me. My actions all define me. And it sucks, but it's not unfair. I'm certainly not innocent. I don't think I ever wanted to be innocent. But this life? I never thought that this would be the price I'd have to pay.

**Yeah, so, I think I'll be updating once a week? Every ten days? Something like that.**

**I want to thank my awesome friends who listened to me talk about this story for weeks. HelenahJay, Ciaobella27, Spargelkun, Lisa, Niki, Tor, and probably a million others. My brain is fried right now, so if I forgot a few people, I'll mention them in my next update. **

**You guys are the best. I always appreciate your thoughts and opinions. **


	2. Chapter 2

**You guys are the best. **

**Thank you to my extremely talented beta, WriteOnTime. And thank you, ciaobella27, for reading this and being awesome.  
**

**I don't own Twilight.**

April 2010

"I don't think this is a good idea," I tell him, looking up at the short flight of stairs in front of us.

"It's just my family, Bella. No one's going to say or do—"

"Which is just as bad. I can't do the weird silence thing. They're going to stare and act polite, and pretend they don't know me."

"But they don't know you," Peter says, looking a little impatient and annoyed.

"Right, they don't, but… you know what I mean."

"It's just my family."

"And they know I'm coming."

"They know you're coming," he assures me.

"And they didn't ask you why you're bringing me to dinner."

"Bella…"

"No, seriously, I want to know how that conversation went."

He sighs. "They want to meet you."

"Of course they do."

"These people aren't monsters, Bella. They're my parents. Are you coming in or not? My mom has been cooking all day."

"I feel so bad now," I tell him.

"Don't feel bad. You needed to get out of that apartment. Staying in there for days like you do, it's not healthy."

"What am I supposed to do? Every time I leave—"

"Eventually, they'll tire of it and stop. If you don't make it a big deal to have your picture taken, a picture of Isabella Swan won't be such a hot commodity. You need to relax. Then they will relax."

I've heard him say the same thing at least twice today. I think he's wrong, but I'm not about to test out his theory. Going through all of that on our way here turned me into a mess. My waterproof mascara really isn't so waterproof. Visine doesn't clear up my eyes anymore. I mean it does, but then I cry again. I'm sniffling and searching for a tissue in my pocket, and Peter looks panicked. Shaking my head, I tell him I'm fine. I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself. Bursting into tears randomly isn't my thing. It's just these days, the tip of my nose is almost always red, my eyes are almost always tired and watery, and realizing that just makes me sad, and the tears flow before I can stop them.

"Bella, come on," he says, tugging on the sleeve of my trench. "There's a feast in there. You're going to love my mom's cooking."

"Fine, fine."

"You're not crying, are you?"

"No! Allergies. Cold."

He pinches my cheek and immediately wipes his hand on his coat. It's disgusting, and we laugh. Peter isn't the type of guy who carries around handkerchiefs. I'm lucky if I find a stray tissue in one of my pockets. I ask him if my face looks okay, and he tells me to wipe off some 'black stuff' from under my eyes. Then we make our way up the stairs.

My hands are shaking around the bottle of wine I asked Peter to pick up on his way over to my apartment. I still need to pay him back. He's sweet, trying to get me to go out and do things, but I think it's too soon. I don't want to face anyone. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't care how nice his parents are. They still probably think I'm disgusting. But they probably love me. Democrats really love me.

It's strange being introduced to new people who aren't about to ask me hundreds of intrusive questions. It's strange being introduced to new people, period. I haven't been social in so long, I feel like I'm watching this happen to someone who looks like me—not really here experiencing any of it myself. I smile, I shake hands, I thank them for having me. I don't bother telling them who I am. Neither does Peter. It's just "hello, dear" and "welcome" and "can I take your coat?" If you want to know more about me, I have my own Wiki page now. Google me and you'll get tons of hits. Dozens of private pictures. Transcripts of private telephone calls. Testimony. These people know me. If they turn the volume up on their TV, we'll probably hear my name when the news comes on. Peter notices how I quickly glance over at the flat screen, and it's turned off immediately. I smile at him. He winks back.

"Bella," his mother calls me, to my immense joy and relief, "Peter tells me that you don't eat enough. I hope you like pork chops. I also made some mashed potatoes and asparagus. Sit down, dear. Make yourself at home."

"Thank you, I love pork chops. You shouldn't have gone through all this—"

"It's no trouble at all," she insists. "You must have lost ten, fifteen pounds at least. Your cheekbones and—"

"Mom…"

"Oh, I'm sorry. I get carried away with these things. I'm trying a new diet now. Weight Watchers. Bella, it's the most convenient thing! As long as you can count, it works. So it's all I think about. Forgive me for not minding my own business."

"It's fine," I assure her. She's all flustered now. Upset. She's never 'seen' me before, but she brought up my weight loss like she's known me forever. It's not her fault. I smile a little harder at her, hoping she understands that I'm not offended.

She returns to the kitchen with a small, uncertain smile on her face.

"Sorry about that. But she's right," Peter says.

"I know. Especially since everyone's seen those pictures from when I was fat."

He scoffs. "Hardly."

"I mean, of course the media picked those pictures to use over and over and over—"

"What did you expect? You're flipping off the world in one of them, and looking like sex in the other."

"I…Peter!"

"Positively indecent. Young schoolgirl pretending to be all grown up, working at—"

"Ugh, shut up. Shut _up_."

Peter chuckles as he lightly punches my arm. "I mean, really, you were probably going for the naughty librarian or secretary look, but your face was too young to pull that off."

He's wrong. I wasn't going for any look. I was just excited about the Theory dress that bitch had let me borrow. I wore it, and it made me look stupid. Slutty. I guess perfect, because that's the day it all started.

"Was, yeah. It was," I say, more to myself than to Peter.

"Still is."

I point to the lines around my eyes. "Sure."

"You just need to take better care of yourself. You're twenty-three years old, Bella. Still young, still beautiful."

"Peter, you're awesome."

"Just looking out for you, kid." He smiles that warm smile that reminds me of my father's.

Sitting here, in Peter's parents' living room in Queens, I can't help but think about my parents, who are probably sitting in their own living room back in Forks. Scratch that. It's too early for them to be sitting around like this. Dad's probably at the station, and Mom's getting dinner ready, or watching one of those court shows. I wonder if they still watch the news together, followed by Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune. I mean, it's what they've done for years, ever since I can remember, but now? What's their every day like now? I don't like to think about it. I certainly don't want to think about it, ever. But I feel like I owe them that much. The very least I can do is wonder how they're dealing with everything.

Maybe it's not so bad anymore. I mean they must be used to it by now. But who am I kidding? Bill Maher refers to the whole thing as 'Hoovergate'. There is no way my parents will ever get used to hearing that. It's probably just as bad now as it was the day everything came out, if not worse. Unless, maybe, they haven't heard about 'Hoovergate' because they don't get HBO. Maybe they don't hear all the jokes or details because they avoid everything having to do with the 'incident'.

I love how Mom calls it that. I never correct her. What am I supposed to say? "Actually, Mom, it was several incidents. Several encounters. A little over a dozen, to be exact." The shame would probably kill me. My mother and I haven't discussed sex since I was nine years old. She told me what happens, told me not to do it until I found someone special, told me to be careful. Fourteen years later, I still cringe and feel sick to my stomach when the word 'sex' is uttered in my parents' presence. It's actually hilarious. Isabella Swan blushes at the mere mention of anything sexual in front of her parents. A lot of people would think that's just so funny.

I'm a little startled when a young girl walks into the living room, a shy smile on her face.

"Bella," Peter says, "meet my niece, Claire. Claire, this is my friend, Bella."

"Nice to meet you," Claire says, her eyes on her feet and then the wall behind me. Poor kid. They probably told her not to stare, but half an hour later, when we are all sitting around the dinner table, she can't help it. She stares at me every chance she gets.

I listen to an argument between her and her grandmother. Claire wants highlights on her dirty blonde hair, but her grandmother thinks she's too young.

"I want my hair to look like Bella's," she says, her cheeks growing pink.

"Bella isn't a teenager. She gets to make her own decisions," her grandmother tells her.

"Believe me," I say, taking a strand of my hair between my fingers, "you don't want to ruin your hair. Mine used to be so soft, now… not so much."

"But you did it anyway. I just want to make my own decisions."

Bratty teens will always be bratty teens. If she wants to ruin her hair, she should be allowed to do just that. I wasn't allowed to wear nail polish until I graduated from high school and left Forks. Makeup? Dad would just scrub it off my face. Still, I managed to sneak some mascara and lip-gloss, and my nails would be a bright, tacky pink every time I was allowed to sleep over at Angela's.

"When you're Bella's age, you'll make all the decisions you want," Peter says. It makes me laugh, because he makes it sound like I'm ancient.

"Well, for what it's worth, I think you look great as a blonde," Claire tells me.

"Thank you."

No one comments on how red my face is. Direct references to my physical attributes freak me out, even when they're just about my hair. I'm sure no one is thinking about it, but to me it's pretty obvious why I went from my natural dark brown to this… I don't even know what this color is. I know it was expensive, and it looks good, and that I'm less recognizable as a blonde.

Conversations continue around the dinner table, and I'm once again wondering if I was wrong. Maybe they're all thinking about why I dyed my hair. They're probably all thinking about me right now. There's no need to panic. It's fine. I'm just so naïve, thinking that maybe these people aren't bursting with questions they want to ask me. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if I cleared my throat, got everyone's attention, and said, "You can ask me anything. I'll answer all your questions for the next twenty minutes." What would they ask? Would they blurt out questions they've been dying to know the answers to and then sit back, embarrassed, shocked that words like that could come out of their mouths? Shocked to admit that they actually have thoughts like that, and that they just admitted to thinking them in front of other people?

The thing is, I've always wanted to be the center of attention in one way or another. Even when I had the biggest secrets to keep that I could never divulge, I secretly used to wish everyone around me knew where I was going. The confidence I felt when I walked down those hallways, when I flashed a smile and my badge—I've never felt that before, and I likely will never feel it again. I was carrying the biggest secret with me—and I'd die if anyone ever found out—but inside I was dying for everyone to know. Like I was proud of it. Like no one was as powerful as me. Like no one had ever been wanted like I was wanted. I'd pass by the sweet older woman who cleaned up after everyone was gone for the day, and I'd wish she knew. Sometimes I just wanted to stop people in a corridor and say, "Do you know why I'm here? I'm _that _awesome."

The sick thing is, sometimes I still feel this way. If I'm buying coffee and the girl behind the counter gives me that look that tells me she recognizes me, sometimes I want to cry and run away, but then there are times I look straight into her eyes and silently ask 'What?' You make the coffee. No one would ever risk everything for you. I'm better than you in a million different ways. I'm relevant. I was wanted, and cherished, and people still talk about how I brought down an entire presidency. So go ahead and judge me while you make my coffee. Fuck you.

It's like I'm two different people. Ninety percent of the time, I want to hide in my apartment and pretend the world outside doesn't exist. I want to read my books, watch my favorite shows on DVD, and lie around on the floor. I want to hide under the table because I'm convinced that these perfectly nice people are thinking about me. But then there's that ten percent, where I want to put on my shoes and walk down the street with my head held high. Like, how dare you judge me? Every one of you has done something that you're not proud of. During that ten percent, I fantasize about saying 'yes' to all the offers I get. I'd dance with the stars. I'd go on a show to find the man of my dreams. I'd write a tell-all and let them take pictures of me looking like a very, very expensive hooker to use on the cover. Or maybe a sweet, misunderstood girl with big brown eyes, looking sad, explaining and apologizing and explaining some more. The thought of that makes me sick, but I can't stop thinking about it. What I'd say, how I'd phrase things, the words I'd choose. I write paragraphs and paragraphs in my head all the way back to my apartment, with Peter sitting next to me in the back of a cab.

"Have you decided what you're going to do when the Hales return from their trip?" he asks me as I'm punching in the tip on the screen.

"They said I'm more than welcome to stay, but it doesn't feel right."

"You can always stay with us, if you need a place."

"That's sweet of you, but I don't see how that would work," I tell him, climbing out of the cab.

"Well, then we need to go apartment hunting."

"Yes, that would be great, except I can't really afford anything right now."

"Bella, don't get mad, but maybe you should consider some of the offers…"

"I can't do that," I say before he has a chance to continue. He always makes the offers sound hundreds of times better than they actually are.

"No one's around," he points out.

"Yeah. I can't find my lighter, though."

"Here."

"Thanks."

"Nice night, huh?"

"I love being outside. Enjoying a cigarette. I love how cool it is out," I tell Peter.

"Did you have a good time tonight? I know Claire was—"

"She's just a kid. I had a good time."

"I'm glad."

"It's just… weird. I've always felt different from most people. Like I was observing, not really taking part in anything… And now, it's like I'm even more detached from things, except I'm the one being observed, and I'm sitting there, just letting them..."

"Did you feel like you were being observed tonight?" Peter asks.

I shrug and think about it for a second. "Not really. I mean, just the normal amount. I really liked your parents. And Claire."

"You're welcome to have dinner with us anytime, Bella. I mean it."

"Thanks. You're such a good friend. Like, the only friend."

"That's not true. The Hales let you stay in their penthouse for six months. I think you can consider them your friends," Peter says with a grin. He loves the apartment.

"Okay. But you know it's only because Jasper feels bad about how big of a c—" I stop myself for I can say that word I hate so much.

"That's not true. He feels bad about what Alice did, but he really loves you. I think he mostly feels bad about introducing you to Alice in the first place."

"I'm just glad she's out of his life. He can do better."

"Much better," Peter agrees.

"She's living in some small town now, selling dolls, or something lame like that." I laugh.

"Yeah, sad."

"Tragic."

"Alice." Peter sighs.

"And she thought this would, like, help her career."

"She just wanted her fifteen minutes."

"Maybe."

"I think you should stay, even when they're back," he says. "The place is big enough…"

"We'll see." I stomp on my cigarette butt and do a little dance over it, making Peter laugh.

"The doorman loves you."

"I put on a little show for him every time I'm out here. Free entertainment on the sidewalks of New York."

"Do you like New York?"

"I guess." It's not like I've actually seen New York.

"Ever consider going back to Washington?" Peter asks as we're walking inside. His words make me stop and look up at him.

"You're joking, right?"

"Not that Washington." Oh. We both laugh.

"I can't do that."

"Why not?"

I wave at the doorman and smile before turning back to Peter. "I can't do that to my parents."

"I'm sure your parents would love to have you around."

"My dad can barely form a sentence over the phone. He's… he's embarrassed."

"Bella…"

"Dude. Small town cop. Everyone knows him. Everyone knows us. I'm probably the laughingstock of the entire town, and they're really nice people, and I'm sure they don't do it in front of my parents, but, like, sometimes I can't stop thinking about what it's like for them. Mom and Dad are good people. Private. If I go back, they'll be in the spotlight again, and they'll hate it."

"You're their only kid," Peter says. "They haven't seen you in almost a year."

"Stop trying to run me out of town!"

Peter stays for a drink and we force ourselves to watch _The Daily Show_, because I feel better knowing about every little thing that's said about me. Jon Stewart. Funny guy. They use this picture of me taken by another intern where I have the biggest grin on my face. It's sort of flattering. I look like I just won something. On this particular show, the jokes can get mean, but they love me. I bet I could go on and Jon would give me a hard time for a little while, but it would go well. They hate _him_ so much. The scandal was the best thing ever for Democrats. Once, when I was out with Peter, Jasper, and Rosalie—one of the rare times I agreed to go out to a crowded restaurant—a pretty drunk guy walked over to me and thanked me for taking one for the team. It made no sense, but then it also made a lot of sense. I wanted to laugh, because in a sick way, it was hilarious, but I was just so embarrassed. We left pretty abruptly, after Jasper kindly told him to fuck off. The guy was nice about it, he apologized and went back to his group of friends, who pretended they weren't watching the entire time. People don't usually do that. I mean, that's the only incident I can think of where someone actually had the balls to come over to me and say something like that to my face. But that was enough to get me to ask Rosalie for the name of her colorist. We went together the next day, and we walked out looking like we could be sisters.

"Bella, that was actually pretty funny," Peter says.

"Hmmm… I wasn't paying attention."

"Just another Ahmadinejad joke."

"Awesome."

"Come on, you love those."

"He just looks like such a sweet little man!" I exclaim.

"You keep saying that, and I'm going to start to see it one of these days. Anyway," Peter says, finally getting up, "I should get going."

"Thanks again, for everything."

"Anytime, kid."

Once I'm alone again in this huge apartment, I think about my conversation with Peter. When was the last time I spoke to my parents? Mom called twice this week, but I didn't even bother listening to the messages she left on my phone. It's only a little past nine in Forks; maybe I should give them a call. I really hope they're out, that the phone rings and rings until I get the answering machine, but I hear her voice after two rings, and she knows it's me.

"Bella?"

"Mom, hey."

"Sweetheart, where have you been?" Don't be annoying, Mom.

"Here…"

"I miss you, baby, you need to call us more often." Stop breaking my heart.

"I know. I will."

"Bella, I remember you telling me that your friends will be back soon. Do you know where you'll be staying once they return?" she asks. It's like she's written down things to ask me in case she gets a hold of me, and that's the first thing on her list.

"No, I don't. New York is expensive…"

"We can send you—"

"You guys can't afford to send me anything. And I'd need, like, a lot of money to continue living here."

"Any job prospects?" she asks in a scared, shy voice. Great. My parents are afraid of me.

"There are lots of prospects. I'm thinking maybe, you know, a TV thing, those pay—"

"Absolutely not," a voice booms from the background.

"I was on speaker?"

"It's just your father, Bella. Calm down."

"Forget it. I'm going to bed."

"Bella?" he says. "Bella, you're not on speaker anymore."

"Daddy."

"You can't do that. You're not going to end up on some trashy—"

"It's just some dancing, or—"

"No."

"I know it's too soon," I say calmly, "but it could help a lot, financially, and I can pay for school…"

"No," he repeats.

"I'm twenty-three years old. It's not your decision."

"You sound like you're thirteen right now, Bella. My daughter isn't going to end up—"

"Seriously, it's too late for your daughter now. I might as well take this as an opportunity to make some money, go to grad school, have my life back."

"Bella…"

"I mean, what am I going to do? Stay at strangers' apartments and rely on their kindness forever?"

"You can come back home," he says.

"Yeah, sure." I laugh. It sounds awful and very wrong.

"We're your parents, and we want you home. Please think about it, Bella."

"Really? I mean… you_ want_ me there?"

"Just come back to Forks, kiddo."

And suddenly everything falls into place. This will probably be the dumbest decision I'll ever make—going forward, of course, because nothing will be dumber than those other decisions I made in the past—but I'm going to do it. When the Hales come back, I'm moving to Forks.

**So, as you can tell from the dates, this takes place around ten months after the events of chapter one. Let me know if you guys have any questions. **

**Again, thank you for all the feedback, support, etc. I'm pretty nervous about this story, and I love hearing from you guys.  
**

**xo  
**


	3. Chapter 3

**Thank you to everyone who's put this story on alert, reviewed, recc'd, etc. You guys are awesome.**

**Writeontime and Ciaobella27 are the best beta and prereader ever. **

**I don't own Twilight. **

Maybe if things were different, I'd like New York. It's beautiful, in its own way. Ugly sometimes, but that's when I really love it and feel like I belong. I could see myself being happy here in another life. Going to school, working, meeting up with friends for happy hour and eating the delicious food I've only tasted from oversized containers, and never off plates sitting around a table, surrounded by other people.

Thinking about leaving this apartment and my life here makes me sad, and I don't know why. Maybe it's my freedom that I will miss once I'm back living with my parents. Maybe I just want to be close to people I know, even if I choose not to see these people while I'm still here. The idea of being back in Forks depresses me. It's a shitty little town. I'll be living in a small, ugly house, no matter what my mother tries to do with it. Anyone I knew in high school who I'd still want to be friends with has left. I have no interest in those who have stayed. Still, sometimes thinking about going back makes me feel happy. A warmth that I associate with comfort and safety takes over, and for a few seconds, I think I've made the right decision. Then I remember what I have to face once I get there.

What is it going to be like, seeing my parents for the first time in almost a year? Will there be hugs? Kisses? Will the disappointment I hear in Dad's voice also show on his face, or will he try to hide it? He's a terrible actor, and any attempts to appear cheerful, and happy to have me back, will only make it worse. And Mom. She pretends like nothing has happened. I love and hate this. I want to know what they're thinking. I need to know what they think of me. But I don't want to know what this has done to them.

I mean, what if they look older, more tired? It could just be because eleven months have passed, but it's not like their lives are difficult. Their jobs are fairly stress free. No debt, no illness. Just a daughter who's a whore and who's coming back to live with them in a town so small that she can't hide.

It would be much easier to just stay here, and hide here, and obsess over my life and myself while reading book after book and sleeping all day. Mom isn't going to let me do that. And I'm going to want to kill her. I probably won't end up staying in Forks for long. I bet I'll take Jasper up on his offer after a few weeks to come back and stay with him.

He's nice to offer, but it wouldn't work. My first boyfriend. My ex-boyfriend. My best friend. The reason why I ended up in D.C. in the first place. He's too many things. Nowadays he's also a playboy, or so they say. Europe did wonders for him. He's looking better—he looked like shit after Alice, and I can only blame myself for that. He's in a good mood—but he still has to talk to someone and take things… and I swear I'm not the one stealing his pills, except of course I am.

I can't stay here forever, which is why I'm leaving, but I'm more than ready to return to Jasper if I can't handle Forks and my parents. Knowing Jasper, however, he'll have a new girlfriend who wouldn't want me around, and he'd ruin things with her for my sake, and I'll hate myself and get back together with him, and he'd hate me because we don't work as a couple, and then he'd dump me, or I'd leave him, and then we'd find a way back to each other, but just as friends, until I ruin his life again.

I pull on a dress I wore a few days ago that has been lying on the floor since I took it off, realizing it's too big and makes me look hungry and sick. I think it looks fine now, which means I was probably being crazy the last time I tried it on. Whatever. I just need something to wear to Jasper's room. He texted me to let me know he's awake. This apartment is huge, and I'd never be able to hear him if he called out my name.

His door is open and he's lying on his bed, looking hot and wrong and tempting. I smile. It's big and bad and full of memories and secrets, and he sees it. I jump on the bed and lie next to him. Do I want him like I used to want him? Or has it been that long? I sigh and close my eyes, thinking about the last time I let someone touch me.

"You're buzzing," Jasper says. "If I touch you, poof, you'll explode." His grin is playful and his hand is on my knee, under it, being unfair and promising things I don't think I want. We've been touching knees and kissing temples and foreheads and playing with strands of hairs for days, but I always skip away when he starts to feel too good sitting or lying next to me.

"Whatever."

"How long has it been?" he asks.

"It's been a while…" I avoid looking at him when I say this, not only because I don't want to admit how long it's been, but because I'm annoyed that he's asking.

"Really?" His voice says he doesn't believe me. "Not even with Peter?"

"We're just friends. And do you really think I'm out there having sex with people? That's the last thing I need—more gossip, more drama."

"Eventually you're going to have to trust people, Bella."

"Yeah. Eventually."

"So not since…?" Jasper starts laughing, and I'd be angry, but it's kind of funny.

"I've had sex since you, asshole!"

"Oh really?" he asks, tugging on a strand of my hair.

"Yeah."

"Who was the lucky guy?"

"Someone I met in Forks, right before we found out about Alice. God, I can't even remember his name."

"It must not have been the most memorable experience."

"Believe me," I tell him, "it was."

"And you can't remember his name?"

"I was a little drunk."

"Of course you were."

I pinch his forearm and kick his legs away, but he's fast and he catches my legs between his. I think about that night, and I'm blushing, not because of what I did, but because I'm embarrassed of how hopeful I was and how I thought I could spend a summer with a complete stranger just because he was nice to me in bed.

"Actually, I do remember his first name. Edward. He was hot, but a total loser."

"Maybe it's a good thing then that you were summoned back east. Better than slumming it for an entire summer."

"I wasn't—he just lived with his parents, which, really… I mean, your parents own this apartment, and I'll be moving in with my parents soon, so maybe we shouldn't judge."

"Bella, you're in a penthouse overlooking the park. So fuck you," Jasper says with a smile and a kiss, then two, then three along my jaw. Maybe I should be jumping off the bed, but I don't want to.

"No, fuck you."

He kisses me. It's been a long time since Jasper last kissed me. It was before our last break up, and before everything happened. I had just moved to D.C., and we thought it would work out, finally. Just us. It lasted a week. At first, I really missed the kisses and his body and his humor and his brain, but then it was like he had never existed.

"Stay here."

I'm lying on top of Jasper. He's warm and his fingers are on my face, touching my lips and then tickling me under my chin. I kiss him, and move against him, and this feels good.

"I'm not going anywhere," I tell him, biting an earlobe, licking his neck.

"Stay in New York. You're making a mistake."

"Stay here and do what?"

"Who cares? I'm here. We'll figure something out. I'll ask my father, and you'll have a job by the end of the month."

"I don't want that," I tell him. But I do, don't I? Jasper's never offered _this _before—usually he just offers to talk to people himself—but I've thought about it. His father can get me any job I want. I've fantasized about this. A job, and money, and not having to move back to Forks. I kiss him again. I want him to repeat it because he's a flake, and he forgets, and I need this so badly.

"You don't want a job in the city?"

"Any job?" I ask.

"Beggars can't be choosers, Bella."

"I want a nice job."

"Anything you want," he breathes. Of course. My hand is on him and he can't think too well.

"Even the shittiest job Mr. Hale can get me would be better than the most prestigious job back home, but I just want the very best." My hand moves up and I wrap my arms around his neck.

"The way your mind works is scary," he says. It's always interesting how he acts like he's shocked that I want the best, and I want prestige, and I want more and more. Like it disgusts him. But he wouldn't understand. He always had the very best. And he likes my ambition. So he doesn't judge too much. And he wants the best for me. I smile at him as he watches me move against him. We're not kissing anymore, but I want to, so I do.

"Just stay until we figure it out," he says a few minutes later, completely out of breath.

"And do what? Fuck all day?"

"I missed your dirty mouth."

I laugh and we kiss and I rub myself over him until his hand is tugging down his shorts and pushing up my dress, and fuck it. I take it off and throw it behind me. We've done this a thousand times. Somehow my underwear stays on (but gets pushed to the side), and so does my bra, but my nipples are in his fingers and mouth and his teeth bite, and my nails scratch, and God, this is so amazing. It never gets boring with Jasper. It never gets old. And for a few seconds after, I think maybe I'm falling back in love with the kisses and touches and the sweet way he holds me and rocks me, but no, we've tried this so many times, and no, no, no.

"Think about it," he says, "why go back home? I'm here, and—"

"We're not compatible."

"Says who?" He's pressing himself against me and licking my neck, and I know he wants to do this again and again.

"Not everything is about sex."

"You know better than that, Isabella."

"Would you date me? Take me out, publicly?" I ask him.

"You just said yourself that we're not compatible."

"So what? We have sex and then I'm not part of your life in the real world, and what…? Been there, done that. No thanks."

"Don't make me out to be the monster here, Bell. You don't want to date me any more than I want to date you. I'm your best friend, and I know this is all my fault. I just want to make it up to you. Let me do that. And if we have sex while I'm making it up to you, it only makes everything better."

I shake my head. "It's not your fault. You don't have to make it up to me. I love you anyway."

"It's my fault," he insists.

"Why? Because you fell in love with Alice and wanted me to have a friend in a new city?"

"You moved there for me, and it didn't even last a week."

"I moved there because interning at the White House is a huge deal, and I wouldn't have passed that up."

"You applied because I asked you to," Jasper reminds me.

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean the whole thing wasn't a dream come true for me. Stop blaming yourself."

"I see your life now, and I can't help it. I've put you through so much. You called me, you needed a friend, and I encouraged you to talk to us…"

"You trusted her. I trusted her. Anyone would have trusted her."

"I truly believed—"

"That she was the love of your life, I know."

"I hurt you back then, didn't I?" he asks.

"A little bit."

"I'm sorry. I flaunted our relationship in your face…"

"I contacted you because the president was flirting with me and I was freaking out. You did nothing wrong. You had a girlfriend."

"Yeah."

I touch him a little, thinking maybe he'll forget all about her if my hand is on his dick. Guys are pretty simple like that. She may be haunting his dreams, but right now he's probably not heartbroken or sad. Just feeling really good.

"Do you miss her?" I ask him, because I'm stupid and don't think before I open my mouth.

"If I ever see her again, I'll punch her in the face."

This makes my heart beat fast. I'm thrilled. Happy. Confident. A little cocky.

"I have fantasies where I strangle her," I admit. "She begs me to let her breathe."

"She _was_ into that sort of thing."

We laugh and he holds me tight, apologizing one last time. I don't blame him for anything that happened, but it's like he gets a sick pleasure from blaming himself. Every phone call, every other email… I almost want to feel better and smile more often for Jasper's sake. He needs to let himself off the hook.

"I'm hungry."

"Say that again?"

"I'm hungry," I repeat.

"Wow. That's a first. What are you in the mood for?"

"Burgers."

"You know there's a Shake Shack close by now?"

"We don't have to go to the gross park anymore?"

"Nope. Excited?" he asks with a grin.

"Do they deliver?"

"No, we can walk over."

"I don't know…"

"We can wear disguises."

I know he's kidding, but I play along. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

We end up having sex again before leaving the apartment for burgers. It's hot and good and I'll miss it when I move back to Forks. He gets up to take a shower, and I stare at him, his body, his hair. The last time I heard from Alice, she left me a message on my phone, telling me how she'd never forgive me for her breakup with Jasper. I don't know what she thought would happen when she leaked those tapes and emails. Did she think Jasper would forgive her for destroying my life? Did she think she would be able to maintain her innocence? Does she think I care about whether or not she'll ever forgive me? I don't. And spending time with him, and living in his apartment, and sleeping with him… it's delicious. It's the best type of revenge, because according to Alice herself, she's still in love with him, and there will be no one else for her, and Jasper was her entire life. I doubt she's capable of those feelings and emotions, but if she is, I win. He's never going back to her.

But I can't help but wonder… does he want to go back? If it wasn't for me, if he didn't feel all this guilt, would he want to be with her again? What Alice did told us a lot about the type of person she is, and Jasper maybe fell out of love. He says she disgusts him, that he's over her. I want to believe him, for his sake. I watch him walk back into his bedroom, looking for clothes in his messy closet, and I really hope he's okay. We always talk about me, never about what's going on in his life. There's never any time for that.

"Are you ready?" he asks, examining a few shirts he found. I point to a blue one I like.

"Yeah."

"You might want to brush your hair."

"Whatever, I'll probably wear a hat."

"What's the point of dyeing your hair a different color if you're going to keep wearing hats?"

"I just don't want to walk around with sex hair," I tell him. "And I'm too lazy to go back to my room and find a brush."

"Bad liar. You know, maybe going back to Forks will be good for you. Just relax for a while. No photographers or assholes on the street to harass you."

"No one harasses me… and it won't be any better there. People will stare."

"I bet they'd stare anyway," he says, "you're hot."

"Hah. Yeah."

Jasper walks over to where I'm lying on his bed and sits down beside me.

"You can come back anytime you want," he says.

I nod. "Exactly."

"I was thinking about it while I was in the shower. You need to spend some time with your parents."

"I know."

"And you'll get away from Peter and his stupid schemes and ideas."

"Schemes?" I ask, even though I know what Jasper is talking about.

"Well not 'schemes', perhaps, but I don't like how he's always trying to get you to on TV. You're better than that."

Am I?

"You're right, I am. I'm not going to be on a reality show like I'm some desperate famewhore." I shudder in disgust, and remember the last conversation I had with Peter about this. With Peter, I act like I'm considering everything he proposes. He wants to help, and he'd get nothing out of these deals, so I trust him. He knows I need money, and he doesn't know about Jasper's willingness to help me find a job through his parents' connections. Or my willingness to take him up on that. I don't know why I act differently around Peter. Maybe I just don't want him to judge me.

"Exactly, you're better than that," Jasper says, buttoning up the shirt we chose. "So you blew the president. Ultimately, you did the entire country a favor, and there are plenty of people who are willing to reward you for that without asking you to make a fool of yourself on television."

"Oh, well, too late for that."

"Bella…"

"Seriously, Jasper? It's okay."

"I'm sorry." He looks sorry, but he also looks like he's over this conversation.

"Don't apologize. It's fine."

I grab his shirt and pull him to me for a kiss. I'm only here for a few more days. I might as well make the best of it.

"Stop making me forget what a shitty girlfriend you were," he says.

"Make an honest woman out of me and I'll stay."

"If I knew you'd say yes, and that we wouldn't kill each other by the end of the week, I would."

"Why didn't we do this the minute you got back? Celibacy sucks, Jasper."

"Find the loser you fucked last summer and do it again."

His shirt is going to get all wrinkled if we keep rolling around on his bed like this. "Ugh. Shut up."

"Cheer up, Bell. You're coming back here and we're finding you a job, or maybe you'll change your mind and go back to school, and when you're back, we won't wait this long to have some fun."

"It's going to suck," I whine.

"And if you get bored, I'll come visit."

"You'll visit me in Forks?" I ask, not really believing a word that's coming from his mouth.

"Of course. Or we'll meet up somewhere on the west coast." Of course.

"I think you'd like Forks."

"I think you're lying."

"Feed me."

"Let's go."

None of this is right, but it's not wrong either. We're friends, we have sex, we help each other out. Someday, someone will get hurt when one of us finds that person everyone is told they'll one day find. The one. Yeah, right. Jasper thought he found her, and we saw how that turned out. And me? It's never going to happen for me. They all know me, even though they really don't. They can pretend that my past doesn't matter, but that's always going to be a lie. They'll either have sex on their minds, or they'll avoid starting anything with me. Who wants to bring Isabella Swan home to meet the parents as the new girlfriend? No one. So maybe Jasper is the best that I can do, but unfortunately, he knows that we would never work. If I cared enough about not being alone, and if I was cruel enough, I'd work hard to change his mind, but he's not what I want. And I guess I'm stupid enough to hope that maybe one day, if I find what I want, it will be stupid enough to want me back.

**Thanks so much for reading. Let me know what you think about Jasper, Bella, Jasper and Bella, New York, burgers, etc. I'll be back next week.**

**xo**


	4. Chapter 4

**A few of you told me that you never received the alert for Chapter Three. In case you didn't, you might want to go back and check it out. For those of you who read the chapter, thanks so much for your kind words. You guys rock.**

**Poor Writeontime had to add an unprecedented number of commas to this chapter. I felt so bad, but not really, because I'm selfish. She's an awesome beta. Ciaobella27 read this, I think, or she just read Mockingjay and ignored it, which is cool, because I love that book.  
**

**I don't own Twilight. **

Jasper convinced me that flying coach and making two stops on my way to Seattle was a bad idea. I knew this, but at the time the decision was made for me to go home, it was all my father could afford. I told him I could afford to buy my own ticket, but he insisted. Mom said that he felt it was his duty as a father to bring his little girl home. He can be incredibly stupid sometimes.

I know I hurt his feelings when I told him I upgraded to first class and was taking a nonstop flight. Telling him that I intended to pay him back for the nonrefundable ticket he had purchased didn't help. He's sensitive. And he doesn't understand why I'd accept Jasper's help over his. Or why first-class on a nonstop flight from New York to Seattle means so much to me. It just does.

I made the right decision. It was a comfortable flight. I took something Jasper had placed in my hand as I was getting into the cab and promptly fell asleep. Did people stare and whisper and wonder throughout the flight? Probably, but it didn't matter, because I just slept and slept. Then I put on the sunglasses I had purchased on my last trip to Barneys—the ones Jasper and Peter thought looked 'cool' and 'sophisticated'—and walked out, still a little drowsy, oblivious to the people around me. It was great. I felt good. I felt like this is it, things are going to be different here. No one expects to see me here. I have blonde hair, and cool shades, and I won't have to hide as much.

My smile was big when I saw dad waiting for me outside the gate. I waved at him, and he nodded. No smile. Looking tired. Long drive. Poor guy. When I reached him, he patted my shoulder, twice, and said, "Let's get out of here."

Well, okay.

We're walking to the car now, and of course he parked as far away from the building as he possibly could. He's walking ahead of me. Just a few steps, but enough to put a small distance between us. I don't remember the last time we walked like this together, so I don't remember if this distance always existed. When I was younger, he held my hand. When I was a teenager, I avoided being seen with him at all costs. Did it hurt his feelings? Probably not. Teenagers are expected to behave that way. It wasn't about him. I just wanted to be cool. He had better things to do.

I clear my throat once, twice, in some lame attempt to get his attention. Maybe start up a conversation. He looks back and slows down.

"Bella, stand up straight. And take those… glasses off, the sun's not out."

I really don't need this. I didn't come here for this. There's nothing I hate more than being told how to stand, how to walk, how to look. I ignore him, and continue walking behind him and beside him all the way to the car. He doesn't say anything as he places my bags in the trunk. But just as we're pulling out of the parking lot, he turns and tells me, "Don't be difficult. I say these things for your own good."

"So I should stand straight and only wear sunglasses when it's sunny? Is that your advice?"

"Bella…"

"No, really. You've had nothing to say to me for months, and this is what you think is important?"

"You're always on… the news, looking… miserable. Maybe if you—"

"If I'm slouching, I'm sloppy and miserable, or just sad and poor Isabella. If I stand up straight… how dare I stand up straight? Look at her, proud of everything she's done. No shame. She's not even embarrassed. Slouch, hide, look straight ahead, hold your head up high. It makes no difference what I do. So please, keep your opinions to yourself."

His hands grip the steering wheel tightly. His face is red. He'd say something and respond to my outburst if he actually had it in him to do so. But he doesn't; he never has. I learned on my first trip back home from college that I could take advantage of that. I wasn't living under his roof, he didn't help me out financially. He had no power over me. Except now, maybe he does. But not for long. I'll be on the next flight back to New York.

Maybe I overreacted, but it's not like this was the first time someone told me to act differently, because then I would be perceived differently. Because being perceived differently in this case would be a good thing. Anything is better than the real me. But no one understands that no matter what I do, it won't be received positively. Because people don't want to receive anything I do positively. I'm no fun if there are good things to say. And they want their fun. And they want to comment, scrutinize, talk, talk, talk about how and what and who and why.

So dad thinks that by standing straight and not wearing sunglasses when I don't need to wear them, this will make people… like me? Be kinder about what they say? It's probably either wishful thinking on his part, or he doesn't understand people. I realized a while back that every time I chose to gossip, bring someone down, judge or mock someone, I did it because I could, because it felt good. It gave me some power. Sometimes it was jealousy, but jealousy is a better excuse than having no reason to act that way other than just plain meanness. And people love to judge, and they love to be mean. It makes us feel so good. Like we're high on something. And the words pour out. And it's sick. But we do it all the time.

The drive is long, and there's nothing on the radio. I take out a book, but I'm soon reminded that I get carsick when I read in the car. I wish I had something else to take, but Jasper was so stingy with his pills. I need to make an appointment to see someone for sleeping pills and other nice things the minute I unpack my bags. For months, I was so opposed to them. I refused to take anything that was prescribed to me. But these past few weeks, seeing how calm and collected Jasper was, how long he was able to sleep and how rested he looked when he finally woke up… I realized I was being stupid.

"I'm stopping for some coffee, in case you need to use—"

"I'm fine, thank you."

We don't speak again until I'm in my parents' house, sitting with my mom at the kitchen table. He tells us he'll be in the living room if we need anything. Once he's gone, mom keeps smiling at me, reaching out to touch my face, telling me how pretty I am, how sweet my smile is, how I should do it more often. I love it, but I hate it. Who doesn't want to hear 'you're pretty' 'you're the best' 'your smile makes me smile' all the time? I mean, my need to hear those things all the time, and by people who mattered, was exactly what got me into this mess in the first place. But I don't want to be told to smile more often than I do these days. I've heard plenty about my demeanor. From the depositions, to the grand jury, pictures of me on the street, people are always commenting on how I don't smile.

She wasn't smiling. She never smiles. Why would he risk it all for such a miserable little thing? She must have smiled for him. Seduced him. Manipulated him. Now she's famous. Watch her get book deals and a reality show, and then she'll have to smile and thank us for making her who she is.

And if I smile, like I did a few times because—I don't know, I think I'm a nice person who smiles to be polite?—if I smile, I'm a fame whore who loves this. I went after the president to become famous. A household name. Disgusting. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, are you proud of the adultery you committed? Is this a joke to you?

The worst part, the part that really gets to me—most of these people are women. Some call themselves feminists, even. They spend their days on the internet, radio, TV, wherever, bashing another woman. I made mistakes. Huge mistakes. I had an affair with another woman's husband. I lied. I loved almost every second of it while it was going on. But those aren't the things they talk about. It's my demeanor now, or a gesture I made in a picture, or a comment I made years ago. They take apart your life, your personality, everything about you, without knowing a thing.

Because what do they actually know? They know that on about fourteen different occasions, I let a married man, who happened to be the president of this country, touch me inappropriately. Or I touched him inappropriately. He bought me presents. I bought him some, too. We had countless conversations over the telephone, intimate ones, dirty ones. They know the content of these calls, of the emails we sent, they know all of that. And you can argue that they're allowed to judge me for the things I did, but everything else? I refuse to just take it. And if that makes me a bitch, a whore, a bad person, so be it. I'm not going to spend my entire life smiling sweetly, looking sad, and apologizing for being human, for messing up, for doing something stupid.

And yet I continue to do it. I apologize everywhere I go, with everything I do. I don't know how else to handle things. I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Because if I don't seem apologetic, and remorseful, and sad, I'm automatically thought of as a bad person. And who wants that? Who wants a whole lifetime of that? I want to be strong, not care, walk to my dad's car happy and proud, sit with my mother and enjoy her sweet words, and not go into a deep funk, analyzing every word that comes out of her mouth. But it's like I've been conditioned to feel bad about being happy and normal and not ashamed of the things I've done. And the way my father had his eyes fixed on the ground, looking uncomfortable and stiff earlier, didn't help. He told me to stand up straight, but he was too ashamed of me to do it himself. And I know that if it was anyone else's daughter on the news, smiling for the cameras, my mother wouldn't be commenting on her sweet smile or pretty eyes. She would be telling us just how she'd like to wipe that smirk right off that face.

"Bella? Is everything alright?"

"Yeah. Lost in my own head. Sorry."

"I was wondering whether or not you wanted to go out to eat tonight," she says, taking my hand into her hands.

"No. Um… I'd rather eat here."

"Well, I guess I can put something together. I'll send dad to the Thriftway…"

"No, I mean. I don't want you to have to cook. It's just… I'd rather stay in," I tell her.

She brings my hand up to her lips and kisses it. For a second I'm weirded out, but she has always been affectionate. Too affectionate. Kisses and hugs and touches that I was more than happy to return. I'm just too… tired, and unwilling to do little things like get up and give a hug these days. But I let her do what she wants, because if I deny her these little things, I'll hurt her feelings.

"Anything you want, sweetheart," she says. "I'll make your favorite. Now go take a bath. Relax. I'll bring up some tea, if you'd like."

I have a favorite? But I don't ask. "You don't have to spoil me."

"It's my job. I'm your mom."

"I love you."

Her eyes light up. I smile at her, and she squeezes my hand so tight. "You're such a pretty girl. Your hair looks beautiful."

"Thanks. Yeah… I found a place in Seattle where I can go for touch ups. You know, get my roots done. I asked Rosalie's guy for some recommendations."

"I'm sure we can find a place in town. Or in Port Angeles."

"No, I'm not taking any risks with my hair."

"You know best," she says. "I bet the place in Seattle is expensive."

"I have money."

"Not Jasper's, I hope…"

I free my hand and use it to play with a strand of my hair. I roll my eyes. "Oh, yeah, Jasper just gives me money…"

"You let him buy you a plane ticket…"

"He spends more on a fun night out," I snap. "No big deal."

"Being around people like that… Bella, you've become a different person."

"From what? The kid I was in high school?"

"You were smart, sweet, responsible. I didn't raise you to accept _gifts_ from men and—"

"Yeah, okay. I should've stayed in Washington, visited you guys more often, found a nice job in Seattle, and none of this would have ever happened."

"No." She shakes her head back and forth. "I think you made the right decision. We were so proud of you."

"But you're not anymore."

"I didn't—"

"Mom, I'd be shocked and disappointed if you still were. It was the ultimate form of rebellion, really. I probably _wanted _dad to find out."

Big, round eyes filled with sadness grow smaller and colder. I feel like I've done something bad. I look down at the table and trace the ugly pattern of the tablecloth with the tip of my finger.

"It's time for you to take a bath. I'll start dinner."

I look up at her. She avoids eye contact.

"You don't want to talk about this?" I ask, grabbing her arm to make her look at me.

"Let go. Go upstairs and take a bath. I'm going to have to take my Xanax early, just to get through the rest of this meal. I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Mom, I…"

"Dinner will be ready at around seven. Take your time."

"When did you start taking—?"

But she's gone. Presumably to find my dad and ask him to make a trip to the supermarket. Once I'm sitting in the tub, the numbness that was so characteristic of the days right after everything came out returns. Everything is quiet. Still. My hands are shaking. I feel nothing. Then it starts to come. It starts deep, deep in my chest. And it's a little difficult to take real, complete breaths. So I make an effort and breathe in and out, deeply. I squeeze my hands between my thighs, wanting to stop them from shaking, because they freak me out. I can't control them, and it freaks me out. I'm crying, and loud, and if anyone's around, they can hear me. I cover my mouth with my hand, but it's still shaking, so I cover that hand with my other hand, but it's no use, so I just cry out and act like the baby I am. I want to scream so loud. I want to shriek and scare everyone, and make them come and wrap me up in towels and take care of me.

I made my mom sick. She's taking pills for anxiety? Is that what it is? Is she having panic attacks? When did this happen? What did I do to her? Why am I here making their lives even more difficult? Sometimes, at the beginning, I'd think about how awesome it would be to just disappear. Be gone. Just the idea, for that short, tiny, tiny second, would make me smile and almost cheer and squeal. No more Bella. No more questions. No more sympathy. But then I was better, and just the thought of that short, tiny, tiny second of clarity made me shake my head back and forth, fast, just to get rid of it. Life is good. It's worth it. Things get better. I have to think about the future. The good past. The great past. Delicious food. Amazing trips. Beautiful cities and sunsets, and warm lips, and awesome sex, and people laughing, and old friends, and good movies and great books, and everything that makes you want to get past the worst times.

Am I that shallow? Good movies and books and awesome sex and world travel? Whatever. Whatever. It's what I want. It's what I love. It's all I asked for. And they're all things within my grasp. Things I can have. Things that won't be denied to me. I think about Jasper, and those last few days, and orgasms and screams and sweat, and I just want to lie here and have some more, quietly, because my parents are downstairs, and it's funny how easy it is to forget trembling hands and mini panic attacks interrupted by stupid tears just by moving my fingers a few times between my legs. And thinking about Jasper. And maybe I'm totally fine, and not sad at all, and not feeling guilty in the least bit, because look at me, I'm totally fine, and I feel good, and the tears are drying on my face, and I make myself smile and touch and forget. Stop being dramatic, Bella. Mom's going to be okay—just be nicer and she won't need the Xanax. Dad's always been an asshole—nothing you can do about that. Jasper will visit whenever you ask him to—and you'll meet him in Seattle, and let him fuck your brains out. And Peter will listen to you complain all night—and you're so good at whining and complaining. And just stop thinking and let this happen, and go downstairs before dad's back. Tell mom to stop worrying about dinner. The diner's fine. We'll go together. Clear your head. Clear your head. Everything is okay. Everything feels good. Stop moving like that. You're getting the floor wet. But you're almost there. Almost there. Imagine him like _that. _And like _that. _Excellent. Quick. Better. Now wash your hair, put on something cute, and most importantly, put on that big smile.

**So I realize that Bella's head isn't the most fun place to be right now. And Edward's not around. It gets better? Edward shows up? I think? **

**:)**

**You guys are the best. Thanks so much for sharing your thoughts. I love finding out what you think.  
**


	5. Chapter 5

**A big thank you to Writeontime & Ciaobella27, who edit and preread this for me. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

I don't remember whether or not we knock before entering a room in this house. Are we formal? Informal? Does Mom just barge in when she feels like it, or does she wait by the door until I tell her to come in? What does she expect me to do? I stand outside my bedroom door, not taking the necessary steps down the hallway to her room because she'll hear the creak, creak, creak, and then I won't be able to change my mind. I'm nervous. I don't know how to talk to her right now. I don't know if she's still angry. Maybe she'll greet me with another one of her kind smiles.

I move around a little. I stare at the wall. There are pictures of me everywhere. Bella at a ballet recital. Bella's ninth birthday. Bella at the science fair. Bella graduating from high school, and then college. Jasper's hand is on my waist in the last picture, but he's been conveniently cropped out. I'm looking up at him, one eyebrow raised, my bottom lip between my teeth. In my own little world, almost oblivious to the camera and the "Bella, smile, honey" that was being repeated to get my attention. Mom hates this picture, but it's the only one I had time for right before the graduates' reception. I was too busy with his family, then with my friends, then with professors—everyone but my own parents. She begged me for months to send her the commencement pictures I had ordered from the photographers, but I don't think I ever did. I don't remember what I did with those pictures. There was one I liked of me shaking Dean Waterbury's hand right after I had been awarded my diploma, but I never got around to sending it to her. I'm sure I have it stored somewhere. I'll surprise her with it when it turns up.

A door slams shut downstairs, and I know it's time to go into my parents' room and tell her she doesn't have to cook, that we should go out. I'm strangely excited about it, almost giddy. I'm not in Jasper's apartment. I'm not sitting around ordering the same meals every day. I don't have to wait for someone to walk outside with me. I can just go eat somewhere with my parents, and I'll be safe and people won't be rude. The people in this town are too nice to say anything that would upset them. I feel like everything's going to be okay, and I'm calm, and something warm bubbles up inside me, and I'm ready to do this. Happiness is right outside this house. If I stay inside these walls for another minute, I'll scream. Maybe I can convince them to drive to Port Angeles and eat there. I can listen to music on the way over, put my feet up on the back seat and stare out the window. Maybe we can walk around a little and maybe there are random stores we can walk into, and I can act like a tourist. I look down at my outfit. Casual, like a local, except nothing that a local could afford. I imagine walking around and smiling, my hands in my pockets, because it's still a little chilly. I almost look like a little girl, but then not at all, these jeans are so hot. And I'm getting distracted by stupid things again, and Mom is probably popping Xanax in her room. I need to go in.

Once I'm sitting beside her on their old bed, I realize that I didn't knock. I walked in and sat down, and I guess that's how we do things here. It was natural and felt right, and she didn't seem to notice anything wrong with what I did. Now her hand is resting on my knee, gently patting it, then flicking away imaginary things, patting again, and giving it a little squeeze.

"Let's go downstairs and get you something to eat," she finally says.

"I want to go out to eat."

"Dad just came back with the groceries. I thought you wanted to stay in."

"I changed my mind. Let's just go out. Maybe go somewhere where we can walk around?" I'm like a kid again, too shy to tell my parents exactly what I want. They should just know what I want, and know that I'm never actually going to come out and say it.

"We're tired, Bella. It's been a long day. I don't think Port Angeles is a good idea."

"I didn't say… We don't have to go to Port Angeles," I whisper. My face is warm and everything is a little sadder, and it's like the time they told me we were going to celebrate my birthday, and I told all of the girls in my class, but then it turned out they meant celebrate with our family and Uncle Billy's family. No friends. It's like that time because she knows I want to go to Port Angeles, just like she eventually knew I wanted to have a real birthday party. And she also knows it's not going to happen, just like she knew then that I wouldn't be getting my party. And both times, she could have changed her mind, or maybe she couldn't, and I've always been a little brat.

"We can go to the Coffee Shop."

"You mean the diner with creepy deer heads hanging?"

"Don't be difficult," she says. "I like the food there."

"Okay." I shrug.

"Did you really want to go all the way to Port Angeles? It will take us over an hour to get there, and you were on an airplane all day."

I shake my head and tell her "no."

"Are you sure? We can go if you—"

"No, it's fine. Maybe this weekend. It's cool."

"Okay, I just want to make sure you're happy. I'll go let your father know, then."

It's so stupid, but I want to cry. In the span of, like, three minutes I decided I really wanted to get out of this house, go to Port Angeles, visit stores, have a nice dinner, look cute in jeans, and take deep breaths outside, and then I was told none of this is going to happen, and now I'm really disappointed, but I don't want my parents to know, so I'll just suck it up and have dinner in Forks, except I just want to stay in now. I don't even want to eat. I want to turn on my laptop, send some emails, stalk people I no longer talk to on Facebook, and chat with Peter. Then I want to text Jasper and see if he's around to talk. And it will be the best conversation, and I'll be in the best mood, and he'll promise to come visit and take me back with him, and we'll make plans for the Fourth and Labor Day, and I'll fall asleep exhausted.

None of this happens. We're in the car and driving to the diner after a lecture on not wearing sunglasses in the dark. They were just sitting on my head, and it's none of their business, but I shrugged and took them off anyway. I replaced them with the hood of my jacket, which my mom immediately pulled off. It's not dark enough, I'm too old for hoodies, there's no smoking here, pretend you recognize everyone even if you don't.

Fine.

Except I _do_ recognize the first person we see as we're walking in, and I almost want to pretend that I don't. He looks the same. His grin does something to my insides. My next couple of heartbeats are so loud and fast, and my chest explodes. It's like I know what to do, and I do it even though it's stupid. I give him my best smile. I work my lashes and my eyes and my brows and my lips and teeth and hair, but it's all so subtle, and he loves it, and he almost jumps, and his eyes are huge. My parents are stupid and blind, and my mother knows him, and my father knows him, and this town is too small. Cullen. Cullen. He was so good that night. And warm and sweet, and I made up all those stories in my head. We're inside now and he's long gone, and I didn't even notice him smiling back at me, because it was all so quick—but just the split-second of almost-flirtation, and being able to smile like that, and knowing how he's definitely thinking about me and my mouth and hands and how good I was… It feels so… good. I feel a pride that I associate with all conquests, big or small, even though all I did was try to smile. But I wanted to, and I wanted him, and this is really stupid, but it's the first time since…

Since I saw him standing around drinking with the really tall man at the party last year. I saw him and thought holy shit, is this what I've been missing by not coming back to visit more often? And I walked over and I was so confident, and he was so easy, and then it turned out he was funny and smart, too. The last person I flirted with, unless Jasper counts, but he really doesn't count.

We're seated so quickly. I make no eye contact with anyone. I look straight ahead and I know I should let my jaw relax, let my face relax, but it almost hurts; I'm making an effort to look strong, to look not sad, to just look like me. But I know I don't, and I know exactly what my face looks like, and how it scares people away, and how I look like I think I'm better than this, and better than them, but this is what happens every time I just try to look straight and not at the floor. Maybe the floor would be better. Maybe I should look and act more humble, maybe sweet, maybe make them feel sorry for me. I swear all of Forks is here. I think for a second maybe this is the stupidest thing ever, but maybe my parents are smart. Maybe they're not as naïve and dumb as I think they are most of the time. They knew this needed to happen, and the sooner, the better. I wonder what they're feeling now, but I'd rather not know. I'm hungry, and maybe I'll eat meat. I feel weak and lightheaded all of a sudden. And then we're sitting down.

"It was nice running into Edward, even if we didn't get to chat. He's such a good kid, isn't he, Charlie?"

"Wouldn't call him a kid anymore."

"He's the pride and joy of our town. Bella, maybe you remember him from school. He was on the football team, and president of…"

She goes on and on. Of course she thinks he's perfect. And if my mom thinks he's perfect, the entire town probably thinks he's perfect, too. I wish I could tell her just how perfectly he fucked me last summer. Maybe then she'd shut up. I mean, knowing how her mind works, he can't be perfect if he slept with someone like me.

"The school board loves him," she continues, deliberately making eye contact with everyone who passes by our table, giving them each a winning smile. We're all good here. We're doing awesome! "We just don't want to lose someone who is so great with the students—"

"I slept with him," I blurt out. And I think I just killed my father.

I've never seen his face so red before. I've never seen his eyes this angry before. I want to ask him, Daddy, are you mad because I slept with the perfect boy who's the most perfect boy Forks has ever known and ruined him in your eyes? Or are you mad because I have absolutely no shame in telling you, over dinner, that I had sex? Does it undermine your authority? Do you just not want to hear it? Have I ruined this sad excuse for a restaurant for you? I want to ask, but that would upset Mom. She'd look shocked and surprised and she'd apologize for me. _She's tired. She's not thinking. She's so stressed._ And I'd make my eyes big and make you feel bad for being mad at me, but I'm not even sure you're capable of that at this point. Maybe I'd just say no, I'm not tired. I'm thinking. I'm not really stressed. I want red meat and a salad, and then maybe we can stop somewhere and get a bottle of wine for me, because I know we have none at the house. And then I'll take little sips, watching your favorite shows with you, knowing how it annoys you that I have absolutely no problem drinking in your living room. How disrespectful. I should act like the child I am.

"Bella, this isn't the time…"

"Sorry, that just came out. I didn't mean to blurt it out like that," I tell her.

"Let's just order something to eat."

"So wait, he works at the school?" I ask.

"Charlie, let's get an order of the onion rings to share. Bella loved them when we used to come here after dance practice."

"Um, I just asked a question. And I don't eat fried things."

"They're just onion rings, sweetie."

My mistake. I shouldn't have mentioned my distaste for fried foods after reminding them that I had a question. She's excellent at ignoring everything you say if she doesn't want to deal with it.

"Well, I don't want onion rings. I'm ordering a steak and a salad."

But the onion rings are ordered. I don't touch them. I want to touch them, I want them in my mouth. I love juicy, fat onion rings. I love onions. I love fried things. I love them, but can't have them. I swear my hand is shaking, dying to reach over and grab one, so I look at it, but it's not really shaking at all, it just knows where it wants to be. And it wants to be grabbing an onion ring. My mouth even waters. Give. Me. An. Onion. Ring. But they're taken away, and I focus on my salad, and the steak isn't good, and we go back home, no wine, and I go straight upstairs to my room. Still hungry. Forcing myself to think of Edward, and how I smiled at him, and how good it felt. I need to remember just how it felt when I smiled, because I don't know when I'll get to feel that good again. I don't want to forget. I want to replay it a million times. So stupid. All I did was smile at someone, and want to flirt, and want to disappear with him, and God, I try to pretend that I remember his grunts and face and hands on me, and it's so vague, but I remember a little—definitely not the grunts themselves. But I guess I know there were grunts, because why else would I remember grunts? And there were orgasms, and waking up in his arms, and kissing on my neck, and "it's Sunday, people don't do anything on Sunday, they just lie in bed all day." Yes! He said something like that, and I really had to go, but not before I lay back and he lay on top of me one more time. Maybe I'm making all of this up, or maybe it all happened and was as sweet as I remember it to be.

Except for weeks right after, when I was crazy frustrated and losing my mind and dealing with a million things, I thought back to that night and let myself get lost in it, thinking about how hot it was. How hot he was. I didn't focus on the sweetness. Was the sweetness even there? I just want to find out. Because hot, anyone can do. But sweet? It's rare. And seldom done well. It comes off as insincere, or he's so incredibly boring, or he's trying to compensate for something that you can't really compensate for. But I think Edward was hot and sweet, and it was really good. Jasper good, but better. Jasper good, but different.

"Bella?"

She knocks once, so I guess we do knock before entering a room in this house.

"Yeah."

"Am I bothering you?"

"No, come in."

I smile at her and move closer to the wall, making room for her on the bed. She lies down next to me on her side, and looks so young right now. Just like me, but maybe prettier. Her eyes are so blue. I used to be so jealous of her eyes.

"So…"

"Yeah?"

"How was it?" she asks.

"How was what?"

"Your first day back."

"Um… it was fine."

"You're a terrible liar," she tells me, gently stroking my hair.

"Well, next time don't ask. You were here for the entire thing. You saw how it went."

"Sweetie, you need to calm down and just…"

"What?" I ask, because I really want to know what I should do. Calm down and…

"I don't know. I don't know what to tell you," she says. "I have no idea what I would do in your situation. I think about it all day, sweetheart. I've been thinking for months. Every time… every time I see you on TV, I wonder 'how does she do it?' 'How can I make it better?' I almost wish I could go back in time, do everything you did, learn how to cope, what to do, what to say, just so I can come back and tell you, and teach you… Or I even thought, this is so silly but I'll just say it… I thought if I were younger, I'd just pretend I was you, but the thought of going through it all… it made me sick and I didn't know if I could handle it. But I would, Bella. I just want to take all of your sadness and…"

I'm crying so hard. I bet he can hear me downstairs. I'm trying to breathe and it's hard. It's all wet and disgusting, and I think maybe I'll die because my heart will stop. My face, the pillow, her shirt. Wet, wet. She's holding me and rocking me and promising to make it better. And I'm asking her to please, please stop thinking about it. Please, please stop wondering how to make it better. Please forget it, I'll be okay. Please don't be sad for me. She's shushing me and kissing the top of my head and rocking and covering me in tissues. Where did they come from and where has she been this entire time? Why didn't she fly out? Why didn't I beg her? Why didn't she sleep next to me all those nights I spent in hotel rooms, waiting for the morning to come, and the questions and the answers and the cold bathroom tiles and the panic attacks. I push her away because I'm angry. She didn't come, and no one even brought it up, and for months he didn't even ask if I was okay. But she's warm, and I'm so tired, and she's mom.

"Go wash you face, you'll feel better."

I shake my head.

"At least blow your nose, and let me pull back your hair. There we go. So pretty."

"Mom, I'm not pretty right now."

"You're always pretty," she says. "You've always been the prettiest."

"Only in your eyes."

"I bet Edward Cullen thought you were pretty."

My face is burning like I'm fifteen and my crush on someone has been revealed.

"Did you know him back in high school?" she asks, now caressing my gross cheek with her thumb.

"No."

"Oh… I thought that's what you meant."

"Last summer. I met him at that party I went to with Jake," I explain.

She looks genuinely shocked. "That… wow. You left just a few days after that party. When did you see him again?"

"I didn't. It happened at the party. Well, right after."

"Edward? Really? I just can't see…"

"Wait—is he married or something?"

"No! No…" Is she blushing? Oh. I bet all the women in Forks have a thing for him.

"So you're surprised that perfect Edward Cullen had a one-night stand? That's really funny."

"Funny?"

"Yeah." I nod. "Most moms would be like… my little girl had sex with a stranger?"

"Oh sweetie, I wish—" and she's laughing hard. I think she's laughing because of the absurdity of the situation. She wishes she didn't know that her daughter is a whore. She wishes she could actually be appalled by the idea that her little girl had a one-night stand. It's kind of funny, so I laugh, too.

"I'm sorry, Bella. I don't know what came over me."

"No, it's fine," I assure her. "Are you okay? Are you going to cry a little over Edward's lost virtue?"

"He just seems like such a nice boy!" She's still laughing, and it's cute.

"I'm sure he is! He was really sweet, I promise."

"I probably sound so naïve and old fashioned, but Bella, you know your father was the first—"

"Gross, Mom. I don't need to hear that."

"I'm just saying, I never dated anyone else. It was never like that. We met, fell in love, got married, had you. Sometimes I wish it was that simple for my own daughter."

I never wanted simple. I wanted to go to the best liberal arts college in the country and then go to grad school, and be the best and smartest, and do great things and work at great places and see everything and everyone. I knew it wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it, and the ride would be so much fun. Lately I think about simple, sometimes. Something about it is just so attractive when you really give it some thought. But I guess simple doesn't work for me. I have to think about it so hard that it's no longer simple. Nothing ever is, in my head. And I think she knows this, and I think that's what she means. I try hard to stop my brain for just a few seconds as she kisses me goodnight. It doesn't, but my body is tired. I fall asleep, wishing for simple dreams.

**You guys make me so happy. Thanks so much for reading and letting me know what you think about this story. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter—it was a particularly difficult one to write. Anyway, I'll update again early next week. **

**xo **


	6. Chapter 6

**Writeontime is my beta. She's awesome and really generous. Ciaobella27 and contreplongee read this and told me it was alright. They're really pretty. I'm very thankful to all of them, and all of you.  
**

**I don't own Twilight. **

"Is this okay?" Angela asks me.

The booth we're standing next to looks fine. I nod and slide in, doing a quick scan of the room. It's mostly empty, and I'm not sure how busy a place like this gets. I've never been to this bar before. It's not really my scene, and I don't think it's Angela's scene, either. But they serve alcohol, and the music is loud, and we've both learned not to be too picky when we're back home.

"I can't drink," she says with a frown.

"Can't one of your brothers pick us up?"

"I guess… We'll see. Right now I just want to talk. It's been a long time since we actually sat down and had a conversation."

"I know. It's my fault. How are you? How are things with Ben?" I ask her.

"Things with Ben… I don't know, Bella. We've been together for so long, and we're fine, but I know he wonders what I wonder all the time—maybe there's something better out there."

"Probably not. I mean, temporarily, yes, because beginnings are the best, but ultimately, you'll end up at the same place you are now."

"What happened to my best friend, the optimist?" She smiles, making me smile back and shrug.

"I don't know. I just think maybe our expectations should be more realistic. Sometimes this is as good as it gets."

"You've been back in Forks for a week, Bella. Don't tell me you've let them break your spirit already."

"No, it was already in pieces, but they just stomped all over them and now the pieces are just too small to put back together."

"Oh Bella…"

I shake my head, laughing at Angela's expression. "I'm kidding. I was just being really dramatic. I'm fine."

She scrunches up her face, not sure whether or not she wants to believe me, but I roll my eyes and she laughs.

"I'm going to go get us some drinks. Beer okay?"

"Do I want to try the wine here?"

"Absolutely not."

I'm so glad she's back, even if it's only for a couple of days. Just knowing that there's someone I can talk to and hang out with living a few minutes away makes me not want to spend my days in bed. She makes me run with her in the morning, and then we end up at the diner for breakfast, or just coffee. People look at us like we're crazy, or maybe they're just staring because it's me. It doesn't matter, though, because I love spending time with Angela, and I'm willing to leave the house if it means having someone to talk to. But we haven't really talked yet, and I know that we're here tonight because she has a lot of questions, and I promised to give her answers. I'd just rather do that drunk. Sobriety can be depressing, especially when you're asked to be sober when talking about something you'd rather forget. I just hope she keeps the questions about the last ten months to a minimum.

"So ask me anything," I tell her once I'm halfway through my first drink.

"You know what I want to know."

"No, I really don't."

"Come on," she says.

"Angela. I have no idea."

"Then I have to get drunk first."

"Please, we talk about everything. So… spill. Tell me what you want to know."

"Okay." Her grin is big and wicked and it makes me laugh. "Tell me what it was like being acquainted with…"—she clears her throat and gets all serious—"with the balls that led the free world."

We're laughing like teenagers who just shared an intimate secret that's pretty embarrassing, but also really exciting to share.

"It wasn't like that!"

She looks at me like 'girl, please, it was so like that'.

"Okay, well it was obviously like that, but balls are disgusting. I mostly just ignored them."

"You're so funny. I missed your laugh."

"Me too," I admit.

"So… I mean, I tried not to read about it, or listen to the stories, but… how did it start?" she asks. I want to tell Angela that I don't believe her, and that I know she loves gossip and she definitely knows all the details that are available to the public, but I let it go. She's my friend, and of course she followed the story.

"Okay, um, where do I start? I'd met him maybe twice, and he was really nice. For the most part, I felt a sense of utter shock that the President of the United States had acknowledged my existence. Then one day we sort of ran into each other and he almost… I don't know, cornered me. He touched my face. It was…"

"Did you die?"

"Well, yeah. I mean, you know how good-looking he is. And that voice… He's also much taller in person, and he was, like, standing over me. I was like 'holy shit! This is the President'. I had no idea why he was flirting like he was, so like an idiot, I asked. And he told me he'd noticed me, and started saying I'm beautiful, I have such a sweet face, he asked around and I do such a great job…"

Angela rests her chin on her hand and listens, completely entranced. "Wow." She doesn't say it out loud, but that's the word her lips form, and it excites me, the way she's staring and listening. It makes me want to say more, reveal more secrets.

"Yeah," I continue, "I'm pretty sure he didn't ask anyone anything, but who cares? I was eating up all of his compliments and loving it."

"So he started flirting with you?" I notice that she hasn't even had a sip of her beer.

"Yeah. Everyone loves to spin it and say I was the one seducing him. Sure. I mean, that makes sense. He was the President. Do you really think interns have any access to him? He had to make himself accessible. And he did."

Angela nods. I don't know why talking about this is so easy right now. I used to dread it and make myself sick when I had to testify, but this is so different. It's easy, because it's Angela, and it's fun, because I like to talk, and what I'm saying is clearly entertaining her. It feels good.

"Anyway, it turned into an obsession. Almost like a game," I explain. "I just wanted to see him again, and he was obviously never around. But there was some event that we were allowed to attend, and he was going to make an appearance. Someone high up who'd been around forever was retiring. By then, I had told Jasper and Alice about how he was flirting with me. It became this big joke among us. Alice let me borrow a dress and told me I'd look cute in it. I mean, you've seen the pictures, I did look cute in it, but I was just definitely asking for trouble. I just wanted him to notice me again. I didn't think anything would ever happen. I mean, he was who he was, and he was married…"

"So he'd only touched your face at that point?" she interrupts.

"Yes. Just a few glances here and there, a word or two, a question. And I was… gone. I can't explain it. One second I was crying over the breakup with Jasper, and I had just found out that he was already dating someone, and then the next… I was sitting around waiting for the President to smile at me. That's really all I wanted. Like I said, it was like a game."

"What made you tell Jasper? I'm just curious… I don't think I would have called Ben if the same thing had happened to me."

"At the beginning, I wanted to call him to make him jealous, but by the time I actually picked up the phone and called, I was just desperate. I'd trust Jasper with my life, and he was in D.C. It's funny that back then, I was so discreet about things; I wouldn't discuss any of this on the phone, or in emails, so I asked him if we could meet up. I was just really confused and excited, especially after the face-touching incident. I wanted to talk to a friend, and I really missed him. And fine, I wanted to make him just a little jealous, and who wouldn't be jealous of the President?"

"Honestly," Angela says, shaking her head back and forth, looking a little dazed, "I don't know how I would have reacted to the President flirting with me. Who doesn't want that?"

"Apparently only whores and home wreckers _want_ it. You know, if I had a penny for every one of those hypocrites who say they would have ignored him or, better yet, reported him for harassment…"

"Exactly."

"Anyway, so that day—the day of the retirement thing—he just showed up for a second, took some pictures, and left. I ended up having to work late, because we'd wasted so much time earlier. I was walking to my boss's office, and Hudson came running down the hall."

"He was such a cute puppy," Angela comments. I can almost see her sitting on her white couch, flipping through the pages of People, smiling at pictures of Hudson and the First Lady and the kids.

"Yeah, but he was huge, at least for a puppy."

"And you hate dogs."

"I don't hate dogs, they just smell bad. Anyway, Hudson made me nervous and managed to knock me to the ground, and next thing I knew, he was there, apologizing. Ten minutes later, we were making out against a wall."

"Jesus."

"Yeah."

We stop talking and I look around the room again. It's busier than it was when we first arrived. There is a group of guys who look like they'd be around our age standing by the bar, their backs to us. Angela notices me watching them and playfully kicks my leg under the table.

"Sure, they look decent from this angle, but you probably don't want to see what they look like," she says.

"Right?" I giggle.

"Look at you, interested in local boys."

"I'm not. I'm just surprised that I didn't notice such a big group walk in. I tend to notice these things."

"Yeah, neither did I."

"I think I need another drink," I tell Angela.

"Another beer? Or do you want to try something new?"

"Surprise me."

Angela returns with very pink drinks that taste like candy. Disgusting, but we drink them anyway, and the conversation turns back to her and Ben and their relationship. She starts asking me more questions when she's obviously very buzzed, leaning forward and whispering, until I convince her to speak up.

"I can't believe I'm asking this, but… how was it? You know me, he's like, Brad Pitt and George Clooney and—"

"He's not_ that_ good-looking," I tell her, and it's a lie, but objectively, it's also true. "But for a President, yeah. I don't know. It's not even about looks. It's his voice. He has this charm… I can't explain. You know as a rule I dislike conservatives, and working there was difficult enough, but it didn't matter when he was whispering things to me…"

"Oh God."

I nod. "Yeah, it was ridiculous. He kept telling me how pretty I looked in that dress. I had the prettiest eyes. He said he thought about them all the time, and my smile. It was creepy, but hot."

"Wow. So that's how it all started…"

"Yeah, you can read all of this. I mean, you probably know he had to cover my mouth because I was trying not to scream during my orgasm. It was fun telling that story to the grand jury. Good times."

"That first time?" she asks.

"Yeah."

"What were you two doing?"

"Dude, he's huge. And you know how I feel about frottage."

"Bella…" And we're laughing again, and for a second my heart stops, because I remember laughing about all of this before, with someone I really trusted, and I want to take back all of my words right now, until I realize it's just Angela, and none of this is a secret anymore. It's all stuff everyone knows. Information you can get at the click of a button. Words I've had to repeat to strangers, out loud, over and over again.

"I can't believe we're discussing this here," I tell her.

"There's no one around, and the music is pretty loud."

"I know."

"Bella?"

"Yeah?"

"I have more questions," Angela confesses.

"Okay…"

"Were you telling the truth when you said you didn't have sex with him?"

"Yeah."

"Why not?" she wants to know.

"Um, it just never happened. I think because he'd never risk it. He never let it happen."

"Huh."

"It was like… I'm so powerful, I'm with the President of the United States and he's obsessed with me, but I actually had no power at all. He made all the decisions. I just took whatever I could."

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret telling Alice," I admit.

"Not the affair?"

"What do you want me to say? Yes, I regret having an affair with a married man? I feel terribly guilty? I can't. It ended fairly amicably, and there were no hard feelings. His wife didn't find out until the whole thing came out, so I never had to deal with any of that. I…"

"Don't tell me you think you got off easy," Angela says.

"No, definitely not, but I guess there are different things to regret. I regret being stupid enough to think this wouldn't come out. But then again, he certainly wasn't the first politician to have an affair while in office. And at the time, I didn't care. It was… it felt fantastic."

"You've always been able to separate emotions from sex."

"Me? Hardly."

"During your break ups with Jasper… In this situation…"

"I was always in love with Jasper. Why do you think I kept going back for more?"

"Are you still?" she asks.

"No. D.C. was a catastrophe. It was over the second he left. I was sad because I missed him, but knew we weren't in love anymore."

"You've been staying with him in New York, right?"

"Yes. I mean, he was away for the most part, but I was staying at one of their apartments. And since I know you're going to ask, yes, I was sleeping with him. And it wasn't about love, so I guess you're right, to some extent."

"I'll never know how to separate the two," Angela tells me. "It's always been Ben."

"You sound like my mother now."

"How is she doing?"

"Fine. She mostly avoids me, and I avoid her. We get along pretty well."

"And your dad?"

"I hardly ever see him. I eat late, and he's asleep by then."

"They don't make you have dinner with them?" she asks with a smile.

"No, those days are over. They know better."

"I wish I didn't have to go back tomorrow."

"Me too."

"You should come down for a weekend."

"I will," I promise.

It's funny how we waited so long to have this conversation. I think about our conversations these past few days, and have trouble remembering what we discussed. I guess we discussed everything that wasn't important. We talked about movies, celebrities, hair, people we knew in high school, diets, exercise, and books, but not about me, or Ben, or our parents, or our lives. Maybe she was trying to distract me, or maybe she felt strange asking me about my life. I know I feel strange asking Angela about her life with Ben. I've always felt uncomfortable discussing anything too personal, and I realize Angela is the same way. I'm surprised we're actually talking now, but I don't mind it at all. And the way she looks at me as she's describing her feelings towards Ben and their relationship, I can tell she has been desperate to talk to someone. So I let her talk, and I shrug a lot, and try to offer her some advice, but my advice seems to depress her.

"I'm getting the next round, what would you like?"

"No, sit, don't worry about it," she insists. "The bartender's a jerk, but we're old buddies by now."

I shrug and slide over a twenty-dollar bill, which Angela accepts. I watch her stumble towards the bar, laughing, because she's completely wasted after just two drinks. The guys we had been staring at earlier turn and notice her, and that's when I notice them. One of them is very tall, and I remember him from the party last summer. And of course, he's there with his friend, whose smile is big and boyish, looking at Angela like he's concerned, like he won't let her fall or do anything silly. Angela turns to me and I know she's asking me what I want, so I shrug and mouth 'anything', hoping that she gets it and turns back around. The men see me sitting here, and they're talking, and there's a lot of laughter. And a few look back, and there's more laughter, and the tall one slaps Edward on the back. Edward just shakes his head and smiles. The men get loud and obnoxious, all talking to Edward at once. And I know what the tall guy said. And I know what all the men now know. And I just want to get out of here, but I can't. Walking out right now would be the lamest thing I could do. So when their short, fat friend flashes me a disgusting smile, I flash one right back. Fuck you, you little loser. You're terrified now. That's not what you were expecting.

Angela isn't stupid, even when she's drunk. She apologizes for drawing attention to me, and assures me that they're all idiots, and I shouldn't care. She doesn't know about Edward, so I tell her.

"Wait, what? How come you never told me this?"

"I don't know, do I call you every time I hook up with someone?"

"No, but this is big!"

"Um, I've had bigger."

She laughs and shakes her head. "Impossible. He's the most perfect, beautiful, perfect, wonderful, perfect lover any woman could ever dream of!"

"I'm the one who slept with him, Angela, unless you've got something you want to tell me."

"I wish." She sighs. "Bella, don't you remember him back when we were in school? He was so cute. Everyone would follow him around. He was God-like."

"How did he manage not to develop a massive ego?"

"Edward Cullen had the biggest ego! But I guess he grew up. I don't know why he's back here, but my dad says he's wonderful with the kids. And everyone—"

"Loves him. Got it."

"I can't believe you had sex with Edward Cullen!"

"Why is this such a big deal? He's hot, I won't deny that, but he's just…"

"Come on," Angela says. "If you tell me he wasn't great in bed, I'll never believe another word that comes out of your mouth."

"He was good! It was good, but I don't know. My head was in a strange place back then, so who knows? He was sweet… Like, I think he handed me a bottle of water and tucked me in."

"Awww. My heart! I would've passed out."

"I was too busy judging him for living with his parents. And judging myself for sleeping in his big boy bed."

"I can't believe this! This is bigger than—"

"Don't say it. Anyway, his friends keep staring at us," I tell her. "Maybe we should leave."

"So you think he told them? He's too much of a gentleman to do that."

"He's a guy. He told them. You're giving him too much credit."

"Huh. Why is Emmett staring at you like that?" she asks.

"Who's Emmett?"

"His brother. The tall one. He was our year. Have you just wiped every memory of Forks from your head?"

"Oh, that's his brother? He was there at the party where we met. Edward had to talk to him before we left."

"I'm sure Edward didn't tell anyone anything," Angela says. And she looks like she's desperate to believe what she's telling me. "It's Emmett. He's the one who'd do something like that."

"Well, if Emmett lives at home like his brother, he probably had a lot to tell. I wasn't particularly quiet that night."

"You're killing me, Bella. Describe Edward Cullen to me."

So I do just that. I tell her about that night, at least what I can remember from that night. Angela covers her mouth with both her hands when she figures out that that's the night when the stupid picture was taken. She's seen it so many times that she describes exactly what I was wearing, and how messy my hair was. I hate that picture. Not because I look like a total bitch, but because it caused so much drama for my parents. They decided that Jake was at fault for the picture ending up in the hands of the media. And to blame Jake and Uncle Billy was unfair, but Mom and Dad wouldn't listen to reason. They cut them out of their lives, and at the time, I was too busy with my own problems to care. But I know how much they must miss the Blacks.

The picture itself meant nothing, but it was the most recent one taken of me when the scandal broke out, and I was making lewd gestures at the camera, and my jeans were cut so low, and my eyes gave away everything I'd done that night. I'd smoked things and I'd had so much to drink. It probably embarrassed my parents. It definitely embarrassed me, even though my friends thought it was funny. Jasper laughed and laughed, but I know he would be mortified if his parents and the entire world saw him in that state. But in the grand scheme of things, the picture was nothing, and now there's a copy of it hanging in Jasper's room, which we stare at and joke about. Angela doesn't think it's funny, and looks at me like I'm crazy when I tell her this. I shrug and say it was a great angle. I looked hot. She laughs, but I think she thinks I've lost my mind. I distract her with descriptions of Edward's body, and she's giggling again, her eyes wide and her drink forgotten. People just want to hear stories about sex. They love it so much. You can always count on that. It makes my mind work extra fast as I tell these stories and think about how I can capitalize on them at the same time. I'd never… but then why not? I'm so tired from talking, and my jaw hurts by the time we're leaving the bar. I can't help but make eye contact with Edward Cullen as I walk by him, and his mouth opens, and he moves towards me, but I keep on walking, and he's quick to act like he never even noticed me. I don't know what I want more right now. Do I want to destroy his stupid, perfect reputation? Or do I want him to use it to save me from this life? Mostly, I just want to fuck him again, but I know that given the circumstances, I can just dream on. It's not going to happen.

**I know you guys wanted to learn a little more about Bella's affair, so I hope this is enough for now. Thanks for sticking around. You guys rock, really. **

**Let me know what you think. **

**:) **


	7. Chapter 7

**My beta and prereader are better than yours (j/k). Really, they're lovely. Thank you, Writeontime and Ciaobella27.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

It's pathetic, the way I'm standing at the top of the staircase, waiting to hear the front door close before I run out to meet Angela, but I want to avoid seeing him this morning, and he's taking his time in the kitchen. Maybe he's waiting for me, to see if I'm okay, after having caught me outside at three in the morning, smoking and crying, freezing in a t-shirt and shorts. He tried to take away my cigarette and threw a jacket at me, which I didn't catch. Then he walked over, muttering things to himself, and picked up the jacket. I threw it right back at him after he shoved it into my hands. He told me to stop acting like a child and go to my room. _It's late. It's cold. We have neighbors. Pull yourself together._

I did everything he told me to do because I couldn't stand looking at his face. Once I was in my room I sent Jasper an email, begging him to come visit. I told stories about how lame the locals are, and how much fun we'll have driving around and seeing ridiculous things, pointing them out, laughing. Drinking in disgusting, tiny bars and eating in rooms where the walls are covered with antlers, creepy dead animals staring at us. He wrote back almost immediately and said he'll be here soon. He misses me and wants to visit friends in California. He'll fly up to Seattle. We'll spend a few days there, and then he'll come back to Forks with me. Why not? He has nothing better to do. He'd love to do me. I teased him and said no, I'm not that kind of girl anymore. He said I'd always be that girl, but only for him. Then he called to make sure I wasn't offended. I was, but then I wasn't. It hurt, but it was okay. I forgot all about it and laughed at his jokes, and smiled through a lot of dirty things, and said a few of my own, and fell asleep. I forgot all about the stupid tears that still felt sticky on my skin. But I remembered when I woke up.

If I walk into the kitchen now, Dad's going to ask me if I'm okay. Or he's going to pretend nothing happened last night. Either way, I don't want to see his face. Every time I think about him, I remember how he snatched away my cigarette and took away the quiet, cold night. I love the cold air. I loved it when I escaped the apartment in the middle of the night in New York, just some cigarettes and my keys, walking down the block or just standing outside the building. I'd watch the cars—most of them cabs—drive by so fast because it was late, no traffic, just lights and familiar noises, the busy city so quiet, but never quiet enough, just enough to distract me from my thoughts. No one around to see me except for the doorman, and if I felt up to it, the owner of the bodega just a few blocks away. I'd buy cookies or candy, and he'd mostly ignore me, and I always had exact change.

There are no doormen or bodegas here, no lights and cabs, but it's not unlike New York. There are noises, just different ones. Quieter ones, but they're so loud in the dark. Signs of life in this dead town, so rare, but they keep me tense and always waiting for the next one, wondering where it will come from, what it is. Always distracting me, even when I'm feeling sorry for myself, crying stupid tears because I'm jealous and stupid. Stupid because Ben called Angela as she was dropping me off, and she was happy and silly, and I decided to turn on my iPod once I was in my room, and an old, familiar song came on and made me sad. You go from twenty-three back to thirteen so fast. Lonely, pining away after things you can't have, pretty words making your heart ache and your eyes sting. Pathetic. Stupid. You turn off the music and focus on something else. But sometimes there's nothing else, and the melody and the words don't leave you.

"Bella?"

"Oh, hey, Mom."

"What are you doing standing there?" she asks as she walks over to me, tying her pink robe and blinking.

"Did you forget to wear your contacts?"

"No, they're in! I'm just trying to get used to them. It takes a few minutes," she explains. "So why are you standing here? Is something wrong?"

"No… Just waiting for Angela."

"Wait for her in the kitchen, with me."

"No, it's okay."

"Suit yourself. Are you two running again this morning?"

"Yeah."

"They're gonna get themselves killed."

I freeze. So he's been listening to our conversation, and he has an opinion, of course.

"We'll be fine," I snap.

"This isn't New York City, Bella. No sidewalks to run on."

"Oh, you seem to know a lot about a city you've never visited."

The front door finally closes and he's gone. It was loud, and Mom jumped, and she's probably upset, so I tug on her sleeve and tell her we should go downstairs and eat something.

"I'm not hungry," she says. "I'm going to go lie down for a little while."

But you just woke up. But I guess I ruined your morning, so you need to go back to bed now, and give this day another try when I'm not around.

"Okay, I'm out."

Angela and I run for half an hour, and by the end, I have to admit that Dad was right. There's nowhere to run in Forks, and no one else seems to be doing it. It's fine when I have someone to run with, but I don't want to be doing this alone once Angela leaves. And she leaves later today.

"I'm never going to do this without having you here to force me every morning," I tell her once the waitress has left with our order.

"You should! It's great exercise, and the fresh air!"

"It's gross and wet, Angela."

"Yeah," she admits.

"There must be somewhere… I mean, don't these people run?"

"I used to be on the track team in high school. Maybe you should run there. You could ask your boyfriend if it's okay. He works there, you know?"

I scowl and throw a packet of sugar at her. "I'm never telling you anything again."

"Oh, come on. You're going to call me soon and say 'Angela, guess what? Edward and I made love last night, and it was beautiful, and I saw stars,' and I'm going to cheer, and swoon, and be green with envy."

"Stars. Yes. Is this before or after I stare into his pretty green eyes and whisper his name over and over again?"

"After," she says. "You'll fall asleep in his arms after the stars."

"Mmhmmm… been there, done…"

"I hate you, Bella."

"I hate _you_, for making me think about things that will never happen again."

"I thought you weren't even into him, that he was just 'okay'."

"I told you, he was nice, and sweet, and it wasn't just okay. I just… I don't remember, it was so long ago. I don't remember the sex as much as I remember how I felt. It was just a nice feeling, just being with someone. New, and different, and he was just so nice about the whole thing," I try to explain.

"Well, why wouldn't he be?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's a decent guy, and you guys had sex, why wouldn't he be nice? He must have liked you enough to sleep with you."

"He just wanted to have sex with me. No one has to be nice. People usually are just… they just _are. _It was great, it's over, you're hot, let's do this again, whatever. You don't have to like someone to have sex with that person. I mean, _I _do, but he probably just wanted to fuck."

"Ugh, Bella. You make me so sad sometimes," Angela says.

"Why?"

"Is that what it's like out there?"

"Yeah. You need to act like it's nothing, it doesn't matter. You need to treat it like anything else. No expectations… God forbid you have expectations. Like, no one has to call or be nice or…"

"But you're just letting them do that."

I chuckle and shake my head back forth. I know exactly what she's saying. "That's bullshit."

"No, you're letting them mistreat you," Angela insists.

"No one is mistreating anyone. It's just the way it is. You don't want casual sex? Don't go around sleeping with people. No one owes you anything."

"But now you're complaining of the way men treat you after sex."

"I'm not complaining. I just said Edward was really nice, and different. And by 'nice' and 'different,' all I meant was that he had manners and made me feel comfortable being there with him. Nothing special."

"Don't you want more?" she asks me. "Something special?"

"You act like I wasn't in a relationship with Jasper for years. We were together all through college—"

"You broke up at least eight times…"

"Yes, but we were together, and Jasper was special. He still is. I don't feel like I'm having casual sex with a random person when I'm with him."

"But that's all it is, if you're not together," she says. I roll my eyes.

"Jasper's not random."

"But the sex is casual."

"Stop judging, Angela."

"I'd never judge," she whispers as the waitress sets our food on the table.

"It's just strange for me," she continues. "I have no idea what it's like to date different guys, to want to hook up with someone, but not have someone at home to go hook up with. I don't know what I'd do. Where do you start? How do you act? How do you turn someone random into a boyfriend?"

"You don't. It just happens, or not."

"So basically, you could be sleeping with someone for months and it could still be nothing more than a casual thing."

"I guess? I don't know. I mean, I know I've got quite the reputation, but I can count the number of guys I've slept with on one hand."

"Are you counting the President?" she whispers again.

"Yes, I am."

"Then you're lying."

"No!"

"Tyler, Jasper, _him_, Edward, your friend from school who you slept with when you were taking summer classes and Jasper was gone—"

"We were on a break! You make it sound like I was cheating."

"Fine, but he still exists, so that's five, and the boy in Berlin."

"Okay, six! And Tyler doesn't even count."

"He took your virginity in Ben's car," she reminds me. "You have no idea how much that counts. Disgusting, and not one of your finest moments."

"Ugh, I swear, it never happened."

"There was proof, Bella. Stop lying to yourself." I shudder at the memory and try to shake it away. Angela laughs.

"Fine. It happened. It was terrible. And so was my first time with Jasper. Awful."

"So why'd you try again?" she asks.

"Oh, he probably tricked me into it by doing awesome things and making me forget how awful it was. He did that a few times, actually."

"So romantic."

"He was, though! All kisses and touches and whispers and then—bam! But still romantic. Oh man, I miss college."

I eat a pancake, and I could totally eat the remaining two, but I set my fork down and ignore the yumminess on my plate. I listen to Angela's stories about work and annoying coworkers. She's funny when she gets mad about something. She's complaining about the woman whose cubicle is directly across from hers when suddenly, she stops speaking. Her mouth opens and closes a few times. Her face is pink.

"What?"

"Don't freak out, but Edward Cullen is here."

"So?" But my heart beats faster, and I'm playing with a stupid packet of sugar, and I need to stop fidgeting.

"Nothing, I'm just telling you he's here."

"Okay, cool." But I want to quickly look over my shoulder and see him and stare a little, because it's not dark in here, and I want to remember his face and see if he's as pretty as I always tell myself he is. A second outside the restaurant and his back and profile at the bar weren't enough. Maybe his face is so pretty that seconds and backs and profiles will never be enough.

Shut up. Shut up and stop thinking about someone who probably tells stories about how you sucked his dick after a party and begged him to fuck you faster, faster, harder, please, yes, more, oh my God. I run my hands through my hair and want to cover my face with it. How did I go from smiling at him a week ago, to wanting to disappear forever because… I should have known better. He saw that smile I gave him last week and probably thought he had a chance. And he'd probably take that chance and use it to tell more stories, and brag, and look smug the next time I run into him in town. I don't need that. I'd never be in control. I can tell myself that I want to destroy his reputation because I can, or just use him to feel good, but at the end of the day he'll just laugh at me with his buddies, and the short, fat one will laugh so hard.

"Are you almost done?" I ask Angela.

"Um…" And she looks up and smiles. She's not smiling at me.

"Angela, right? I'm Edward."

Excitement and nerves and my pancake and coffee create a mess in my stomach, and I continue to play with the sugar packet. Angela shakes his hand and replies to his greeting. She's calm and cool and polite and all smiles.

"Hey, Bella. Welcome back."

His fingers are on the table, and I stare at them. He's nervous. He's softly tapping one finger, and probably doesn't even know he's doing it. Then his hand curls up into a fist. Then he lets go. I could stare forever. Perfect distraction from this perfect stranger.

"Thank you," I reply.

"This isn't the best place for this, but I was hoping I could speak to you. Privately, if that's alright with you, and Angela, of course."

"We were just about to leave," I tell him.

"I'm going to go pay for this." Angela is gone before I can stop her, and I finally have to look up at Edward. I'm not a rude person. I try to smile, but it's probably ugly, twisted, strange. It's like I can't look straight at him right now, and I don't like that feeling. It reminds me of the early days of testimony and depositions. I'd try to speak and keep my face relaxed, but it was always contorted, ugly. Twitches and blinks.

"Please, sit."

"Are you sure?" he asks.

"Yeah, this place is pretty empty."

He sits across from me and I can tell he doesn't want to be here either, except he chose to walk over, so he should just speak and leave.

"Wait, how did you know I was here?" I ask him. And then, because I have absolutely no filter these days, "it's like you're stalking me."

"I'm not, I promise." He looks guilty and a little scared, a lot embarrassed. "I stopped by your house, and your mother said I would probably find you here, with Angela."

I raise an eyebrow. He continues.

"I wanted to apologize for last night. I don't want you to think that my friends and I were…"

"But you were. And if you weren't, you wouldn't be here right now."

He blinks twice. He's surprised. He thought I'd smile and thank him for his "apology" or whatever that was.

"I know what it looked like," he tells me.

"It looked like they were laughing about something someone said about me. And I'm pretty sure you quickly became the center of attention, so I'm guessing it was about you, too." He's about to say something, but I stop him with a wave of my hand. "Listen, it's fine. They're your friends and they're probably_ so_ proud of you. 'Good job, Cullen, how was she?' And I guess you wanted to brag, except I thought of you as the type that would be embarrassed about the whole thing, but what do I know? Just don't come here and be all perfect and nice by apologizing for something you refuse to truly take the blame for. You told your friends, fine. They laughed, great. It's over."

"Huh."

"What?"

"You've got a temper," he says.

"Wow. You pick things up fairly quickly. Now I get why you're the pride and joy of Forks. Just a little smarter than the average—"

"You've got some nerve, talking about the people—"

"I don't need a lecture right now."

"Good," he says, and he's so angry, and it's hot for a split second, but that's not what this is about. "I don't have the time to give you one."

"Busy, are we? What do teachers do all summer, Mr. Cullen?"

He moves quickly, and I think he's getting up to leave, but he's still here. "You don't want my apology? That's fine, but don't try to insult this community or my job."

"I wasn't insulting anything."

"You're insulting my intelligence, now."

"Fine. You're right. I hate this town, and when we met last year, I was wondering what you were doing here, and when I saw you last week, I wondered why you were still here. If that's insulting, I don't care. I care about very, very little, Edward. And if you think that my feelings were hurt last night, you're wrong. I have heard it all. Thank you for coming here and apologizing, but it wasn't necessary. You did nothing wrong."

I watch him run a hand through his hair. He doesn't say anything, so I decide it's time for me to go. I try standing up, but I need a second. My legs are wobbly and I'm out of breath. It's like I ran, ran, ran and just stopped, and I can't run anymore. He suddenly looks up and his face is young and sad, pretty, but not hot, nothing I want to dream about, nothing I want to think about while I fantasize.

"I didn't tell my friends anything last night," he finally says. "My brother has a big mouth, and a few of them knew, and they recognized you. I laughed along with them, and I immediately regretted doing so when I saw your face."

"It's okay, really."

"Anyway, I'm sure you don't want to keep your friend waiting for too long."

I stand up and he immediately stands up too, and it's all awkward and embarrassing, the way we make it out the door. I stop, he stops. I move, but he doesn't, so I stop again, but he's moving and we bump into each other. I smile, less ugly this time, and he smiles, always pretty. I stop again once we're outside, and turn to face him.

"I'm an asshole. It was really nice of you to come looking for me today," I tell him.

He nods. I nod. I start walking towards Angela's car.

"Bella!"

"Yeah?"

"Where do you guys run?" he asks me, and I'm suddenly aware of my outfit, and my hair, and my cheeks are probably still red and blotchy and disgusting.

"Just on the side of the road, anywhere."

"You could always run on the track around the football field. The roads can't be safe."

Everyone in this town is so concerned with safety. For what?

"Oh, yeah, cool."

"See you around."

"See you."

Angela doesn't ask me about our conversation in the diner. She asks me about our brief exchange outside her car, and I giggle. I don't know why I'm giggling, because if I ever had a shot with Edward Cullen, I just blew it, but I keep giggling, and she keeps teasing me about him. I let her do this, and when she asks me if I think Edward spends time at the school over the summer, and if he'd be around if I went running there, I blush, and I let Angela see. She tells me to buy cuter shorts. I look out at the grey morning through my window and wonder if Edward just made it darker, or if maybe, somehow, that uncomfortable conversation with him took some of the grey away. The rest of my day is better than the all the days I've spent here so far, so I think maybe it did.

**I love you guys. I'm being really good about replying to reviews and answering questions these days, so let me know what you think, or ask me things, or just stop by and say "hello." **

**xo**


	8. Chapter 8

**Writeontime and ciaobella27 are awesome. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

You never actually think about what your parents do once you're gone. You assume they go to work, cook, clean, fish once in a while, maybe watch a lot of television. I don't remember what they did when I was in high school, and once I took off for college, I never bothered to ask. Everything was always "good," except when it was just "fine," and I never asked for them to elaborate. Now that I'm back, I can see that they have lives. Monday nights they play poker with a few other couples. Thursday nights they go out to dinner, and Mom wears something cute. They go grocery shopping on Saturdays and run errands together. She talks about her book club a lot, but I'm not sure when it meets.

It's good to have the house all to myself, even if I find it just a little scary. It makes these noises that make me jump, and everything creaks. I don't remember being alone in this house too often before I left, and I wonder if it scared me back then, or if you don't tend to notice these things when you're alone, but not _alone_. When your mind is full of things to distract you—things that you actually want to think about, dream about, fantasize about—you're never really alone. But when it's full of things you want gone, and you're all by yourself with those thoughts and memories that just won't leave, you hear things that you probably wouldn't have heard. They scare you, but you'd rather focus on them than your usual thoughts, so you end up sitting on the couch, completely paranoid, feeling like you're losing your mind.

And when the phone rings, you really jump. And then you have to catch your breath as you walk over to pick it up.

"Hello?"

"Bella?" The voice is familiar, but I can't quite…

"Jake?"

"It's good to hear your voice, Bella. I missed you."

"I missed you, too," I tell him. I really did—he was like my little brother, and my only friend when we moved here, even though he was just an annoying kid who followed me around until a girl his own age surprised him with a kiss. Then I was just a distant memory. I smile, because it was so silly how hurt I was at the time, especially since I was the one who had been wishing that he'd go away.

"I heard you were back and figured I'd call tonight since it's poker night."

"How do you know about poker night?"

"Dad used to play, too," he explains.

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"I'm really sorry about that, Jake. I told them a thousand times that it wasn't your fault…"

"You're not mad at me?" he asks.

"No, I'm not, and I feel really bad—"

"Bella, Dad's not handling this well. He really misses your parents, especially Charlie."

I let out a sound that's something between a groan and an "ugh" because I don't know what to tell him. He knows how stubborn my parents are.

"Maybe you could talk to them?" Jake continues. "Maybe if they know you've forgiven me…"

"They already know that I'm not mad at you. None of this was your fault. They're just embarrassed because everyone saw that stupid picture. Believe me, Jake, I don't care. I've had to talk about my vagina and getting spanked in front of people, and everyone knows I give good head. If anything, every time that picture is used somewhere, I feel like I'm saying "fuck you" to the world. So thank you, you did me a favor."

"Shit, Bella, I never thought about how much this sucks for you."

"Um, really?"

"I guess I've had my mind on my dad and the fight. Are you doing alright?" he asks.

"I'm fine."

"I didn't think you'd come back to Forks."

"I know, right? But it's been okay so far. Angela was here, and we were hanging out."

"Yeah, I heard you guys were jogging the other day," he says with a laugh. "Sam told me he was about to drive into a tree when he saw you. Bet you looked good."

"Sam?"

"Sam Uley. You met him last year. Tall guy… Never mind."

"Yeah, sorry, I don't remember."

There's a moment of almost-awkward silence before Jake speaks again. "Hey, how about I pick you up tomorrow and we can spend the day together?"

"I don't know about that, Jake…" It's not that I don't want to spend time with him, but I know that when Jake says "spend the day together" he really means that, and I'm not sure I want to commit to spending an entire day with Jake. He's loud and obnoxious, his friends are annoying, and from what I've heard from my parents, he no longer smokes or drinks, so it would be too many hours spent sober with someone who always manages to infuriate me.

"Why not?" he asks.

The excuses come pouring out of me, but they're pretty lame, and I don't feel like trying any harder than the half-truth. "I was lazy today and didn't go for a run. I was thinking of doing that in the morning, and then—"

"Come on, I'll pick you up after your run."

"I need to come home and shower."

"Fine, after your shower, then. Call me and let me know whenever you're ready."

See? He never lets anything go.

"Jake, I don't know about spending the whole day together."

He begins to protest, and I'm seventeen again, listening to an annoying fifteen-year-old whine, whine, whine until I have to give in. While he's telling me about this place he knows in Port Angeles that I'll love, it occurs to me that I can get Jake to join me tomorrow morning. I chickened out today because I was too nervous to go by myself. I need someone else with me.

"Actually," I start, "come with me in the morning. I don't want to run alone around town, and I wanted to try running at the high school, but I don't want to run alone there, either."

"Are you even allowed to do that?"

"Apparently it's no big deal."

"I don't run, Bella."

"Um, you've got a pretty sick body, I bet you work out a lot." And my voice is low, and it's the voice that boys like. I expect him to see right through what I'm doing, but I guess he's just a guy.

"Not really," he says, and it's a lie, and he's cute trying to impress me. "I mostly just lift weights, but I guess I could run with you."

"Jake, you're the best."

"Okay, I gotta go, but we'll talk tomorrow. I'll pick you up at eight?"

"That sounds fine."

He's worried about running into my parents while picking me up, but I tell him not to worry. He hangs up and I take a deep breath. Sometimes I make plans with someone because I want to see someone else. Am I using Jake? Maybe, probably, but he's using me, too. He admitted that he never once thought of how I was doing. Either he doesn't care, or he's just too selfish to let his mind wander there, to think about how his friend is handling a difficult situation. Not that I expected him to; Jake wouldn't be Jake then. He's always thinking about how things affect him, his life, his family. I remember when I told him I was going on a date with some kid, junior year. Jake was so jealous. I told him I'd never go out with him, so it shouldn't matter who I dated. He said he'd rather I stay alone forever than have any relationship outside of our own. I responded with, "what relationship?" and he flipped out. Always a little competitive, always a little jealous, always a little delusional.

Of course he didn't call to apologize, and as soon as he heard that I wasn't angry, he let me know exactly why he was calling. And I get it, I really do. If there was anything I could do to make things right again between my parents and Uncle Billy, I'd do it—but I brought it up twice this week, and it only caused more anger and silence among the three of us. Something must have happened, words must have been exchanged, and Jake probably doesn't know the whole story. I want to get to the bottom of it, but right now I need to focus on fixing things with my own family. I don't know where to start. My own apologies for what happened and what I put them through? I think I've told them "I'm sorry" so many times that I can't bring myself to say it anymore. And they never apologized. And I don't think they realize that I expect an apology, but I do, and if they can't see what they did wrong, I don't know what to do.

Last night Mom told me to apologize to Dad for my behavior, and I shouted a lot of things, but mostly "apologize for what?" For being an asshole in response to him being a dick? No. She told me I needed to be more humble, more grateful, kinder to my father. I reminded her of how he pretended I didn't exist for weeks, and how he hasn't said a kind word to me since I got back. She had nothing to say. Her eyes turned red and her chin began to tremble, and I know the look I gave her was one of disgust, because I'm sick and tired of her constant tears, but I gave it anyway, and all it did was make the tears flow sooner, faster, and I became angrier, and left the room.

One thing you never want to hear is that you need to apologize to someone for something you didn't really do, or that you did but don't feel bad about. Early on when the story broke, one of the attorneys at the firm that was representing me told me to apologize to the country for my actions. I needed to be likable, I needed to show a different side of myself. She was promptly taken off my team. Apologize for what? I absolutely did not owe the public any apologies. It was none of their business. If they were stupid enough to elect someone who was stupid enough to forget about family and God and morals and values and his church, that was their problem. I apologized to the people who mattered—the person who mattered. It was a pretty lame apology, but I had to do it. It was done privately, just a simple note, and I know she received it, even if she never acknowledged my apology. I had never expected her to.

She was just so amazing throughout the whole ordeal. I know it wasn't because she cared about me—she probably wanted me dead—but she never uttered a word publicly, she never allowed anyone to bring it up, or bash me in front of her. She could have dealt with everything in so many different ways. And I appreciate that she didn't play the sad victim, making me look like the devil, but then… she didn't have to. Everyone else did it for her, and sometimes, sometimes I really wish she got angry, went on Oprah, blamed me for what happened to her marriage, shed some tears, _anything_. There were times when I really wanted to hate her, but I was always in awe of her, because she handled everything with such dignity and grace. And when people began to talk about her, about the marriage being a sham, or how she let this happen because she clearly didn't care enough about her husband, I wanted to find her and say, "See? You can't win." But, yeah, imagine ever having to face her. I don't know if I could. I mean, I had faced her plenty of times _during_ my time at the White House, but she didn't know, so it was easy. Now? I would probably throw up and cry and apologize again.

But apologize for what? My note didn't say, "I'm sorry I went down on your husband and let him finger me in the Oval Office." I didn't say, "I'm sorry I almost had sex with your husband at Blair House." I apologized for the consequences of my actions, so maybe it was stupid. Maybe it wasn't my place to apologize. I mean, I'm not the one who made vows, who had any obligations towards her. But I believe—and this could be the stupidest thing I've ever thought or said—I really think that as a human being, and as a woman, I had an obligation not to lay a finger on someone else's husband. And I knew this back then, but oh man, it was so exciting. And I'd love to say that I'd do everything differently if I could go back in time, but the things I felt, the things he said and did… I don't know if I'd be able to stop myself. If I could do it all over again and not get caught? I'd probably do it all over again. So I guess the apology was bullshit, except for the part where I apologized for the embarrassment I caused her. What a crap apology. But how do you apologize for the rest? It wouldn't be honest. So then what's the point?

It's kind of like Edward's apology. He did what he did, he'd probably laugh like that again, but he felt he had to say something. I believe that I'm a good person, on some level, sometimes, and I felt that I had to reach out to her to prove that to myself. I couldn't just sit back and say nothing, especially when I truly felt bad about everything she went through. I also wanted to feel better about myself, and knew that it was the right thing to do. I don't think Edward's apology came from a different place. He probably came to me because he wants to be a good guy, and wants to be able to say he did the right thing. So maybe we're not that different, but we're both very different from Jake. I don't know much about Edward, but it seems like he's a decent person, or at the very least, he wants to be. I know Jake is a decent person, but he's also incredibly selfish. I can be pretty selfish, but at least I try. Jake doesn't. It's him, him, him. Not the best kind of friend to have. As long as you're the person that he wants you to be, Jake will do anything for you. Otherwise, you've lost a friend—if he ever really was a friend to begin with. If I hang out with him tomorrow and tell him I can't help mend the relationship between Uncle Billy and my parents, I'll never hear from him again. So maybe I'll stall, because it's pretty lonely here, and Jake can be fun. Or maybe I'll make a _new_ friend, if I'm lucky, if he's nice enough, if I'm at the right place at the right time, if he's willing to be seen with me.

XxXxX

Stalling works, I guess. I promised Jake that I'd try my best, but told him not to get his hopes up. I stalled and flirted, just a little. And when he showed signs of anger and impatience, my hand was on his thigh and my smile was slow and pretty, and a pinch of his cheek brought him back from wherever my smile had sent him, and he agreed with me—we would both work on it. That's when I asked why he had to do any work. Didn't Uncle Billy want to make up?

"Well, Charlie punched him."

"What?"

"Yeah, that's what I heard."

"What is it that you're not telling me?" I ask.

"I don't know what went down, Bella. I came home and Dad had a black eye. You know him, he doesn't say much."

"I'll find out from my mom."

Dad doesn't punch people. He's all about the law and non-violence—unless it's against animals. He seems to hate animals, but since it's not against the law to shoot them, he lets out his aggression against whatever happens to be in season. I say that if something comes after you and you need to defend yourself or the people you love, you should attack. Maybe Uncle Billy deserved it, or maybe my father is losing his mind.

There are two kids out on the field running around when Jake and I arrive at the school. Jake appears to be hesitant about trespassing on school property, but if anyone says anything, I can just say that Mr. Cullen said it would be okay for me to use their facilities. If the employees here love Edward Cullen half as much as my parents and Angela do, they will tell me to carry on. Or maybe they'll go find Edward to make sure I'm not lying, and then Edward will appear, and it will be awesome, but that's pretty unlikely. They'll either make us leave, or let us stay. I can't believe Jake is afraid of someone who works at the high school. What's the worst that could happen? They kick us out? Big deal.

"Your shorts are short," he tells me.

"My legs are long."

"That's true, but your shorts are still pretty short."

I pout. "They must have shrunk in the dryer."

"You grew an ass."

"You are an ass."

"It's time for you to pay me a compliment, not call me names."

"Eh, you're alright," I say with a shrug. "Take off your shirt and then we'll talk."

He's an idiot. His shirt comes off and I laugh and stare and laugh some more.

"Not bad."

"You've never seen better."

"Cocky; I like it. And no, I've never met anyone with muscles and a chest like yours, but that's not what I go for, little boy, so put your shirt back on."

It takes a few minutes to convince him that running around shirtless on school grounds is inappropriate. I start stretching and can tell that Jake is bored already. He says he'll be right back because he forgot something in the car. He returns with a water bottle, but sits around to show me that he's not interested in working out.

"Hey Bella, I'm going to go in and see a friend who works here. I saw his car parked on the other side of the building."

"Who's your friend?" I ask, but I'm pretty sure I already know.

"Edward Cullen. He's a teacher here."

I look down at my legs. They look long, and my skin looks soft, and they're not too skinny. I notice a bruise right above my left knee. It's nothing too ugly. I want Edward to notice my legs, maybe remember his hands on them that night, and how he kissed the insides of my thighs, and how he pretended that I was holding him hostage and not letting go when I wrapped them around him the next morning.

"You guys are friends?"

Jake nods. "Yeah, we play basketball together sometimes."

"Um, okay…"

"How do you know Edward?"

"I met him at the party last year," I remind him.

"That's right."

He doesn't make any jokes. There's no smirk, no laughter, nothing. Has he forgotten that I left with Edward? Has Edward never mentioned it? I guess that's not something that comes up in conversation, but it did at the bar the other night.

"You don't want to work out, do you?"

"No, not really," Jake replies.

"Let's just leave, then, unless you want to stop by and see Edward."

"I don't have to."

"I don't mind waiting, and we really have nothing better to do."

"You're right, but you're coming with me. Don't make me walk into that place by myself."

There are a few students walking around, and they all look miserable. Summer school must have just started, and I can't imagine what it's like to be in here instead of out there. I took summer classes in college once, but that was different—I wanted to do it. I wonder if Edward teaches any summer classes, or if he's here doing other teachery things.

"I went to high school with Edward," I tell Jake. "He was older than me, and you're younger than me, so it's strange that you guys know each other."

"We have a basketball league. It's pretty small."

"Like, a bunch of grown men playing basketball in Forks? Are there tournaments?"

"Nah, nothing serious like that."

"Who's better?" I ask. "You, or Edward Cullen?"

"Edward's pretty good. I'm more of a football guy myself."

It's such a small school. The hallways are familiar. The classrooms haven't changed much. It's warm in here, so I pull off my hoodie. I'm wearing my lucky college t-shirt. The dark purple has faded a bit, but I love it, and I wear it all the time. I love and miss my school—college was the best time of my life. I wonder where Edward went. I'll ask Jake later, or try to find out myself.

We finally find Edward standing in the middle of a classroom, scratching his head. Jake walks in, no longer hesitant and shy about being here, and I'm mostly forgotten in the doorway while they catch up. I notice Edward glancing over at me a few times, and the second Jake stops talking he walks over to me, a small smile on his face that's just waiting for an invitation from me to grow bigger, so I smile small myself, and it does, and then so does mine, and we're grinning, and crazy, crazy things are happening inside me.

"You know Bella," Jake says. "Bella, Edward."

Another smile, which makes me smile, and Jake's eyes narrow, and he knows. A roll of the eyes and a sigh from him make me shoot Jake a dirty look. Edward is too busy asking if I came here to use the track, and I nod, and explain to him that I didn't get a chance to run because Jake is being lame.

"Come on, Jake. You don't think you could keep up with her?"

"She's fast, Cullen. I don't think I want to try."

"What am I supposed to do now?" I ask. "Angela's gone, and you don't want to run with me. I'll have to go back to my pilates DVDs."

"You're a big girl, Bella, I'm sure you don't need me here to hold your hand every morning," Jake says. "And Edward's here, you could always stop by and say 'hello' once you're done."

"All sweaty and gross? I don't think Edward would want that."

"I don't mind sweaty, and I doubt you ever get gross," Edward says. And I think maybe he remembers me a little sweaty in his arms. That makes me smile and I feel my knees maybe getting a little weak, because I notice how tall he is, and I notice his arms, and I notice how perfectly his clothes fit, because they're not perfect at all. And I notice his hair, and how he looks like a little boy when he shows his teeth, and the sun in his eyes through the window bothers him, and his squint is pretty.

"You really shouldn't have said that," I say to Edward. "I'm going to stop by every day, and you'll get sick of me."

"We can alternate," he replies, pulling off his sweater. I look away, because I know better than to look at a pretty boy taking off his sweater. T-shirts ride up and things are revealed, like a little bit of skin, a little bit of hair. "You stop by tomorrow, and I'll come out the next day and watch you run."

"Watch me run? That's a little creepy. You can entertain me while I take a break."

"And then I'll watch you run."

"If you insist." I giggle. _Giggle. _How embarrassing. Then I blush. _Blush._ I don't blush, but I'm blushing hard right now. I'm being stupid. I need to stop. Or I need to flirt more, and then I need to have him, and then… and then…

Then I notice the faded letters on his t-shirt. "Oh, you went to Dartmouth?" I ask him. I manage to keep the surprise and little bit of excitement out of my voice—to an extent.

He looks down for a second, then looks up again, and into my eyes. "Just for a year. I returned to Washington after freshman year."

"Oh, how come?"

He shrugs. I think I probably shouldn't have asked that question.

"It didn't work out," he explains, adding a smile at the end.

"Bella, we've gotta get going." I nod at Jake, a little grateful, but also somewhat disappointed that we have to leave.

"It was good seeing you again." I hold out my hand and Edward shakes it. His face is kind; his hand is warm.

"I'll see you again tomorrow?" he asks. And it's all I need. Our conversation wasn't just a silly exchange that won't lead to anything. At the very least, we know that I'll be back tomorrow.

"Sure."

**As always, thanks so much for reading.**

**I also want to thank JaimeArkin, who wrote a really awesome review of this story that was featured on the Indie Fic Pimp blog. **

**I love your reviews. They totally make my day. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Are you annoyed by Jacob... do you trust Edward? Does anyone miss Jasper? No? I didn't think so. Boo. Anyway, let me know. I'll have chapter 9 up shortly.  
**


	9. Chapter 9

**Ciaobella27 reads this before you guys and says nice things. She's so pretty, even dressed up as a witch. Writeontime is my awesome beta, and I can't thank her enough for everything she does. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

Jacob asks me questions on our way back from the school. He teases me about Edward, and I drop a few hints. He wants to know more, and I tell him to mind his own business. He gets angry; he sulks. Then he asks more questions. Who does my dad go fishing with? Does my mom even enjoy it? Do the Clearwaters come over on Sundays? This question is interesting, because they don't, but they obviously don't spend Sundays with the Blacks, either. It also makes me think of what happened to Seth Clearwater, so I ask Jake. I stare straight ahead when the words come out of my mouth, and I'm not blushing, I don't think, because I don't feel the heat under my skin. Jake says he's okay. He doesn't tease me about my longest, biggest, craziest crush. I ask him why. It turns out that Seth isn't really doing okay, and the mere mention of his name puts Jake in a mood where he doesn't want to tease, laugh, joke, or do anything but drop me off with a half-hearted smile and weak hug. I have a lot of things to ask my mother, but she's not around. And when she is later on, she's quiet, and distant, and wants to nap.

I avoid them and they avoid me, until I walk into the living room to watch some television. That's when Dad gets up off his chair and on his way out turns to me and tells me to stop running around with Jacob Black. If I'm going to be staying here, I have to respect his decisions and wishes, and he wants me to stay far away from that family.

"What's the big deal?" I ask him.

"Billy's no longer my friend, Bella. Just trust me on this one and stay away."

"I heard you punched him. Uncle Billy's in a wheelchair. Who does that?"

"Bella!" my mother cries.

I wait for his face to turn into a scary shade of red. I wait for the veins to pop out. I wait for the loud, cruel words, but they never come. He simply walks away, up the stairs, and a door closes quietly—no loud slam.

"He needs to chill," I say to the walls, to my mom, to the screen.

"Yes, and so do you."

Like so many times when I was growing up, she makes a choice. She stands up, picks up the glasses and bowl of popcorn they were enjoying before I came in, and walks away. After a few minutes in the kitchen, she goes upstairs. I'm not surprised. Just annoyed. Not with her, but with myself. I can't wait for the day when I don't spend those two or three seconds thinking she's going to stay with me, talk to me, or come to me. Hope is completely wasted on these two. I should save it for things with more promise. I should get some sleep because I want to wake up early, just like I did today.

XxXxX

I've barely made it out of the car when I see him walking towards me. I finish the text I've been meaning to send to Jasper all morning and wave "hello" with my phone still in my hand. Hopefully, Jasper won't call me the second he reads the text. I asked him to wait another few weeks to visit. He said he wanted to come next week, before the summer gets too busy, before he has to leave for all of the trips he says I can accompany him on.

"Wow, were you watching from your window, waiting for me to pull up?" I ask Edward once I'm close enough.

"No." He shakes his head. Man, he looks like a kid. "I was looking for my sister. She was supposed to drop off my lunch which I forgot to bring today, but she just called and told me she'll be running a little late."

You didn't have to answer my question, Edward, but that was cute. "You have a sister?"

"Yes. Her name is Bree."

"Cute. How old is she?"

"She just turned seventeen."

"Oh, she's young. Does she go to school here?" I ask.

"Yes."

"Awkward."

"Not really. So far, she hasn't been in any of my classes," he tells me.

"What do you teach?"

"Humanities, and AP US History."

"That's pretty cool."

"Yeah." He nods. "I enjoy it."

"Poor kid. Having her older brother as her teacher."

"I'm Bree's favorite."

"Brother, or teacher?"

"Everything."

"It's awkward just standing here," I tell him. Almost as awkward as this conversation about your kid sister.

"You ready to run?"

"Sick of me already?"

"Not at all," he says, walking beside me as I make my way to the track. "It's actually a nice day, I don't want to be cooped up in that classroom."

"Ah, you're escaping the ugly classrooms of Forks High School by hanging out here with me. I told you, you can't watch me run, or warm up. That's just awkward."

"There's plenty to watch out here. You can do your thing, and I can do mine."

"Good luck focusing on anything else."

I have to ignore him just a little bit if I'm going to do this. There's no one else out here this morning, and the sun that was shining just a few seconds ago is now behind one large, heavy cloud. It's probably going to rain, and I want to run today. We make it to where I was warming up yesterday, with Edward walking just half a step behind me, and my phone rings. I hit ignore, but Jasper is persistent.

"Hey, I can't really talk right now," I tell him.

"I forwarded you my flight information. We're spending Saturday night in Seattle."

"Uh, no we're not."

"We're not spending it in Forks."

"If we're going to spend any time in Seattle, it has to be during the week. I have a few appointments I need to make, and Saturday won't work for me."

"Fine." He sighs. "Then just let me know which night you want to spend in Seattle and _not _in your parents' house. I'm going to fu—"

I smile the kind of smile you always try to hide. Impossible. I bite down on my bottom lip because if I don't, I'll say words I can't say in front of Edward. Words Jasper would like. Words that I'll probably say soon enough, when he's here. Something tightens inside my stomach, and my knees are a little shaky. I miss him. I miss him a lot. I shouldn't be missing him this much. I shouldn't be thinking about what I'll pack, and whether or not I'll want to leave for good.

"We'll talk about this later," I tell Jasper. "I'm supposed to be working out."

"How does the W sound?"

_Amazing._

"Fine, whatever, I'll call you later."

I hang up and jump when I notice that Edward is standing right next to me.

"Sorry, I had to take that. My friend is coming into town and we're thinking about spending some time in Seattle," I explain as I place my phone inside my bag. "I need a little escape."

"You just got here."

"I'm already bored. It's not like there's much to do around here. I just hang around in my room all day." He's still here, but I start doing some stretches. He sits behind me. So quiet and still.

"If you ever feel the need to escape, you can climb out your window. The tree's right there."

I freeze mid-stretch. Then I turn around to look at him. His eyes are on the ground before they meet mine.

"You're starting to give off this creepy vibe."

"But you're still smiling, so I've failed to creep you out," he says.

"Yeah, it usually takes a little more than that." We laugh, and it's the same _nice_ that I keep associating with this man. "But seriously, why do you know that?"

"Before your family moved to Forks, that house used to belong to the Stanleys. Jessica Stanley was my girlfriend in ninth grade."

"So you climbed up the tree and sneaked into her room?" I ask. I'm pretty sure that's exactly what he did, but I still kind of want to hear him say it.

"All the time."

"Was it worth the risk of getting caught?"

He shrugs. "Definitely."

"Boys..."

"Come on, Bella, I think you know something about taking risks like that," he tells me with a smile. But the smile disappears almost immediately, and he regrets his words.

I wish I could just joke about this, take it lightly. I'd tell him, "Come on, Edward, we're not seriously comparing a fifteen-year-old girl to the President of the United States, are we?" But I can't do it. He's a stranger. It's not funny. I should let it be funny, at this point, I should just laugh and say something, but I let too many seconds pass by without saying a word.

"Sorry, I—"

"No, it's cool."

"I should get going."

"Thanks for hanging out." I have to force the words to come out, but they do, and it's as nice as I want to be right now. And I'm glad they sound nice, too, not forced, not cold.

"I'm going to be away tomorrow and Friday, camping trip with some kids in a program I volunteer for, but I'll be back Monday. Or even this weekend if—"

"My friend is going to be here this weekend, but I'll be around next week."

"You'll be in Seattle," he reminds me. "For your appointments."

"Just for a day or two."

"Well, have fun, and let me know when you're back."

"I'll stop by with an apple or something."

It's weird, having this conversation, but it's not weird at all. It's actually very normal. And I'm standing a little closer to him, and he has a hand in his hair, and his face is so serious. One second he's staring straight into my eyes, and then he's looking far, far away, and then back at my face, and there's blinking and awkwardness. He's so confident, but then he's not. He's not a boy, not at all, but then he is. I'm shifting my weight from one foot to another, but it's more like a sway, and it's how I stand sometimes when I'm flirting after a drink or two, but I'm so sober. It's all just too weird, and too much, and I hate not being able to understand or explain what we're doing, so I take a step back, and then another. I'm going to run now.

"Bella, take my number," he says. I like that he doesn't give a lame reason, he just wants me to have it. I like that I get to have his number, that it's not some big secret; that he's accessible, if I want to him to be.

"Um, okay. Let me get my phone."

I punch in his number, recognizing the Seattle area code. "You should have mine, too. Don't give it to strangers."

"Who would I give it to?" he asks, genuinely confused and surprised.

"Anyone. I've changed it four times this year."

"I can see why you'd be worried, then."

I shrug. I don't tell lies, like, "I trust you, you seem like a good guy." I don't even say things like that if they're the truth.

"Okay, well, that's Bree calling," he says, looking at his phone.

"Have fun this weekend."

"You too."

I end up running for a while, and when I stop, I run again, because I don't want to think. What I want is to feel like I normally do when a cute guy just talked to me. When you know he maybe wants to be your friend, and probably wants more. I want to feel that little burst of confidence and pride. I want it to remind me that I'm desirable, that I can still have friends, that maybe I can make new ones, too. Instead, I have too many other things I can't stop thinking about. He feels sorry for you, Bella. He's just a nice guy, Bella. He just wants to sleep with you again, Bella. He doesn't know you, Bella. He knows too much about you, Bella. He laughed that night, Bella. He sees an easy girl who fucked him an hour after meeting him at a party, Bella, and she's the same girl who's world-renowned for her blowjob skills. He'll never see past that, Bella. And you shouldn't care. You shouldn't care, because he's nothing. He's no one. He's a stranger.

The stranger waves goodbye as he gets into his car at the same time I'm getting into mine. He's on my mind that night, the next morning, and every almost second until Jasper arrives. And then I push him away, and it's too easy, so I know it didn't count. Barely a crush. Just an example of how desperate I am. Something to think about when I'm bored. So easy to ignore.

XxXxX

"Let's just stay in."

"No, I never get to go anywhere."

"I missed you."

"We just spent four days together."

"Not alone in a hotel room," he says, and he's right. "You won't even let me touch you."

"Um, you touched me a lot in the car."

"We're not fifteen."

"You're acting like you are."

"I missed you, Bella," he tells me again.

"Make reservations somewhere nice. Get me wasted. We don't have to leave this room until noon tomorrow."

"We don't have to leave at all. We can stay until Friday."

"No, I told my parents we'd be back tomorrow."

"They don't care. They want you to have fun."

He's right, but I'm trying hard to be nice. And it was his idea, so he needs to let me do the right thing. And he will, he always does, but only after too many arguments—and this is why we don't work. The weekend we spent together was great. Jasper suggested spending a day in Port Angeles. He invited my parents along. He talked about how great his rental car was, and how smooth the ride would be. He let Dad pay for lunch, because he knows that Dad likes to be in control. He did every single thing he's done before, but this time, they were nice to him. So when they went to bed that night, Japer told me that it's time for me to be nice back. "They're trying," he said, "so stop being a jerk." I let him kiss me for an hour on my parents' couch, and thought maybe if I'd been less stupid in the past we could have done this when it meant something, instead of running off with his family every chance I got.

These past four days have been the best. Waking up late. Waking up to the big, delicious breakfasts my mom prepared. Waking up to a sleepy Jasper knocking on my bedroom door. No running, no silence, no hours and hours of nothing.

"I still think we should go back. I know it's not fun for you, but I feel like they'll just be annoyed if I don't. They finally like you…"

"It took them a while."

"They never got to know you. I mean, they met you twice the entire time…"

"Your fault," he says, pulling me to him. I crawl on top of him and close my eyes as he finds my neck with his mouth and makes me want to forget about dinner, alcohol, music, anything. "You never wanted to go to Forks."

"I didn't, and I still don't, but… fuck, stop doing that."

His tongue is too soft; his hand is too good to me. It always finds me, holds me between my legs, makes me move against it. Stupid hand.

"Do you still want me to make reservations?"

"Yes." Not really. No. Maybe. I'm hungry. I want to wear the dress I just bought. And the shoes. And I want to be outside. Yes. No. No. No.

"Bella…"

"Make them for later," I tell him. I move off, and he's annoyed, but just for a second, because I only moved off to take off my pants, and everything else, and I kiss him a few times, until I'm thrown onto the bed, and it's _please, please, please, please, _and I've never denied him. No man has ever enjoyed getting head as much as Jasper. No one has ever been this enthusiastic, this excited. And it makes it so much better. The words and movements and his hands. And me thinking, why didn't I do this sooner? Why didn't I do it in the car, on the couch, everywhere? Four days wasted. Stupid, stupid, stupid. It's all I can think about when he pushes in, but then I stop thinking completely. And I stop thinking until we're done, and during dinner, and then all night. It's okay to be young, and to smile, and not think all the time. It's okay to enjoy the company of the one guy you've loved, your friend, your confidante, the man who is never going to be right for you, but who makes you happy for long enough. Just long enough.

"So that's a 'no' then to spending a week in the Hamptons?" he asks me when we're back in our room, just a little drunk.

"Yeah, I don't even like the Hamptons."

"No one likes the Hamptons, but that's where everyone's going to be this year. They miss you. I miss you."

"I can't go back. It's… where the fuck were they? I—"

"What did you expect them to do?" I love that he knows what I'm talking about. I rest my cheek against his chest. "They didn't know what to say," he tells me. "Some of them were too scared to call, and you know some of them tried. You wouldn't let anyone near you."

"They should have tried harder."

"Come on, Bella. You remember when Will left Liz right before the wedding. You didn't want to reach out."

"That was different," I argue. "She didn't want to talk to anyone."

"And you did?"

He holds me like he means it. I can never really tell, but I like it, so I let him.

"I don't want to see everyone right now. I miss them, too, but I certainly don't want to spend an entire week with them. Maybe I'll send a few emails, make a few calls, get back in touch."

"And what about Jack's wedding in LA? He said he sent you an invite."

"He's getting married in August, so I have some time to think about it. He said I could let him know whenever."

"So many people love you, Bella," Jasper whispers. "Stop hiding."

"I can't…"

"No one cares. They'd all do what you did. The guys, even… well, most of them."

We laugh. He twirls a strand of my newly-dyed hair around his finger.

"It's not that," I begin to explain. "It's everything. I need a job, or I need to go back to school. I need a life. I don't want to face people until I figure things out."

"Come back to New York after spending the summer with your parents. Dad said—"

"Peter called me about the book deal."

"No," he says.

"Why not?"

"You're better than that."

"Better than what? It would just be my side of—"

"Your side of what? It's completely unnecessary, and a lot of unwanted attention."

"It's a lot of money," I tell him. "And something to focus on."

"You'll have to promote it. Is that something you want to do? Bella—"

"Chill out, I didn't say I was going to do it."

"This isn't the first time you've brought it up."

"I'm just telling you about my options."

My phone buzzes with a next text, and I'm glad our conversation is cut short, for now. Jasper let go of me somewhere around "Peter" and "book" so I walk over to pick it up, expecting a message from Angela, who knows we're in town. I'm more than a little surprised when I see who it's from.

_Should I be expecting my apple soon?_

I shouldn't respond immediately. I shouldn't…

_not until this weekend…but I don't think you work on weekends._

Jasper calls my name, but I ignore him. He comes up and stands behind me just in time for the next text.

_I run._

_liar _

"Who are you texting?"

"My friend."

"Who's your friend?"

_I could run._

"Just this guy from town."

"Let me see."

"See what?" I ask.

"What he's saying."

"He's not saying much. I need to respond to his last text."

"What does he want?"

"I don't know," I admit.

"Show me."

So I show him.

"Tell him to run the other way," Jasper says after reading the texts.

"What?"

"You're not getting involved with this guy, are you?"

"I don't know."

"He's the loser you told me about."

"He's not a loser," I sigh.

"That's not what you were saying then."

"You're jealous."

Jasper shrugs, walking back over to the bed.

"I'm looking out for you," he tells me.

"Um, no, you're being strange and possessive."

"Best case scenario, you're leading someone on. Worst case scenario, he just wants to fuck Isabella Swan."

"Maybe Isabella Swan just wants to fuck him."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"It really shouldn't."

We ignore each other, and it gives me the chance to reply to Edward's text. I have no idea what I want to write, what I want to say. He could run. He wants to run with me.

_I could use a friend who can run_

And almost immediately, he responds.

_I'll be there._

I watch Jasper take out his iPad. You never know what someone is doing on their iPad. They claim they're reading, but you know it's probably something else. And I doubt Jasper is reading right now. I lie down beside him, taking out an actual book. It's late, and it's cold. I crawl under the covers with my book and my phone, and I guess Jasper knows I'm cold, or alone, and just a little annoyed, because he's snuggling me. It's difficult to stay mad at him. I'm going to let him go soon, and I'll miss him. He's a constant. A guarantee. When he leaves, I'll just have myself, and an almost-maybe-possible running date with Edward. It's like I know that I should tie Jasper to me. Leave with him. Ask him to stay just a little longer. Ask for promises, something more than a friendship. Knowing that he's waiting for me to go back just to be friends isn't enough. Another Alice will come along. She'll distract him. She'll take him away. Promises of jobs and vacations and a life together will be a distant memory. But the more time I spend away from him, the less all of that appeals to me. This should make me happy, but it scares me. I want to hold onto everything from my old life, at least as much as I possibly can. I turn to face Jasper, and he puts away the iPad. He kisses me.

"I don't know about the wedding, but I'll RSVP and say I'm going, for now. And I'll spend Labor Day with you guys."

"Good girl."

I've always tried to be the best.

**You guys are the best. Thanks so much for sticking around, it means a lot to me. Let me know what you think? Yes? Awesome! Also, I want to know what's the one thing you've had a hard time letting go.**

**I'll shut up now.**

**mwah**


	10. Chapter 10

**Thanks to writeontime, ciaobella27, and contreplongee. I love you guys.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

"Don't…"

He doesn't listen, probably because he thinks I'm trying to be difficult or annoying, but that's not it at all. I'm texting someone, and it's more important than his hand on my leg. His hand is a distraction as it moves closer to where I want it the most, and when "no" isn't enough, I'm forced to push it away. He sighs and gives up, closing his eyes and yawning.

"Are you texting your friend again?" Jasper asks.

"Yes."

"You'd rather text your friend than spend time with me?"

"I am spending time with you. My mother is downstairs. I don't want to start something that we'll eventually have to stop." It's a half-truth. Not a complete lie. Now shut up.

"Well, then there's really no point in sitting in this dark room. Let's go downstairs and watch a movie."

"Dinner's almost ready, anyway," I tell him.

He stands up and offers his hand to help me off my bed. He's leaving in the morning, and I'm going to miss him. I keep his hand in mine as we walk out of my room, and I lean in and whisper, "We'll do that later. A lot. Maybe in the old truck." He laughs and kisses me. My heart aches a little. Just one more day, and I'd probably be in love with him again. If I'd stayed in New York, I'd be a mess, trying to keep him, losing my mind over where his mind is at all times.

This is good. He leaves; I stay. I absolutely cannot fall for him again. And it's not like I'd actually be falling in love. I'd just want him so badly, and I'd remember everything good between us, and I wouldn't be able to walk away. I did that one time, and things in my life got out of control. I can't go through all of that again. He's my best friend, the best lover, but time and experience have proven repeatedly that he's not worth it… we're not worth it.

He knows what I'm thinking, because I tell him. Last night, on the couch, he said so many pretty words that I almost melted into him and agreed to go back. This morning, in the kitchen, Dad asked me if I was jogging at the school, and it was so easy to remember the other person I think about sometimes, that I wondered if I could leave with Jasper and give up the chance to run with_ him_ this weekend. I want to run with a stranger more than I want to run away with my friend.

Dinner is followed by dessert, which never happens in this house, but I guess Jasper is special now, and Mom wants to keep him happy and well-fed. She starts washing the dishes as I watch Jasper have a second slice of pie and a third scoop of vanilla ice cream. He never eats this much, but he's on vacation and he loves pie, and he swears he'll start working out again the minute he's back in New York.

"You work out with your friend Saturday morning, and I'll go to the gym with Russ. Deal?" he asks.

"Deal."

"Who are you working out with, Bella?" Mom wants to know. I'm tempted to lie and say I'm actually just running by myself, but she'll probably think that I'm hanging out with Jacob again.

"Edward."

"Edward Cullen?"

"Yes."

"I didn't know you two were… back in touch," she says, as she continues to wash the dishes. I wish I could see her face. Jasper grins, and so I'm glad she can't see his.

"We ran into each other a few times."

"Oh. You didn't mention that."

I steal Jasper's spoon. The ice cream is even more delicious when I use it to ignore my mother.

"Have you been spending a lot of time with Edward?" she asks.

"Not at all. We exchanged numbers when we ran into each other, and he suggested that we get together this weekend."

"That's very nice of him."

"I think he just likes your daughter, Mrs. Swan," Jasper interjects.

"Well, obviously." I laugh, Jasper laughs, but Mom is silent. Nice, Mom. Clearly you don't think that he does.

"I'm glad you're meeting new people and making some friends. Edward is a sweet—"

"Don't worry, I'm not going to corrupt sweet Edward."

"Too late for that," Jasper whispers. I kick him under the table and steal more ice cream.

Mom puts away the last dish and wipes her hands on the red apron I bought her for her birthday a few years ago. I knew she'd love it, and even if she doesn't, it's the only one she wears. Avoiding eye contact, she takes it off and hangs it on the back of the door. Then she's gone.

"You had to mention my 'friend', didn't you?"

"What? I didn't know it was a secret."

"I hadn't really thought about it," I admit. "Obviously she doesn't want me hanging out with him. He's perfect, good, the best. I'm undeserving of his pity… forget about his friendship, or—"

"There you go again, making things up in your head. She was just surprised."

"She probably doesn't want me to ruin his reputation. They talk about him like he's some kind of god. Um, he's just a kid with really great manners, and—"

"Are you going to sleep with him again?" Jasper interrupts.

I raise an eyebrow and he shrugs.

"If you're interested in him, I think you should go for it."

"Yes." I smile. "You _would _tell me to go for it the day after you told me you're in love with me."

"I'll always be in love with you. You drive me crazy. But if you want to be with someone else…"

"You can't be in love with someone and be okay with them being with someone else."

"You're telling me I don't love you?" he asks me, like he has a thousand times before, starting an argument we've had on at least half a dozen different occasions.

"You love me. I love you. You were going to kill yourself over another girl nine months ago. I can't stop thinking about this guy. Let's just forget about us right now."

"Forgotten."

He pushes away his plate and walks out the door, his hands in his pockets, looking for his cigarettes and lighter. I shouldn't have brought her up; he hates that. Whether or not I choose to believe that he truly loathes her because of the things she did, there is one thing I know—he sacrificed his relationship with Alice for… me? Our friendship? I don't know, but she begged him to stay, and there's no doubt that they broke up because she betrayed me. He wouldn't have cared if she had done that to someone else. I want to feel bad, and lately I do, when he looks sad, or when he talks sad. It's been so long since I found out about Alice's betrayal that I don't hate her in the same way that I did early on. I never want to see her face again, and I'll never speak another word to Jasper if he goes back to her, but if I hadn't gone back to him, seeking a friendship, desperate for a confidante, they could have lasted.

It's completely possible for me to sit here and regret the choices I've made, but that's just more time wasted. My choice to call my ex-boyfriend when I need him isn't something I'll ever regret. I'm not a monster, but I certainly won't feel bad for how his relationship with Alice turned out. He doesn't blame me—if he did, why would he want to be around me, and why would he still want to help me?—so I'm not going to blame myself.

Jasper walks back into the kitchen and stands in front of me.

"This guy, whatever his deal is, sounds too good to be true. I'm not saying he doesn't like you, or that he doesn't want to be your friend, but be careful. I want to say that he sounds like a decent person, and that he won't screw you over, but we know better than to trust strangers again. You trust too easily. We're the same person, so I know how it feels. You want to give all of yourself to everyone you meet. Be careful."

"I really don't think he's going to screw me over. He's just being nice," I tell him. His words weren't cruel, but my chin trembles slightly, and I have to look away.

"Bella, don't cry. I'm not saying there's no possibility that his intentions are good."

"I don't care about that right now… I'm just… I miss you, and when you leave—"

Jasper places his hands on my shoulders, gently shaking me, and I stop talking.

"You ignore me when he texts. You've never ignored me, not even when you had to leave to meet the President. This kid has more of your attention than the Prez and I ever had, combined."

"So? It's nothing," I insist. "I don't even know him. He just feels sorry for me."

"No one feels sorry for you. Believe me, that's not why he wants to hang out with you."

"So he just wants to have sex."

"Has he been hitting on you?"

"Not at all… I don't—"

"Don't open up to him. Don't trust him. If he wants sex, and you want it too, do it—just make sure he hasn't set up any cameras. Have fun, Bella. You need to loosen up and have fun."

I laugh and brush away the half-tear that has made its way down my cheek.

"You're pushing me into the arms of another man," I sigh. "Again."

"I never—"

"I'm kidding! I know you didn't push last time…"

"I didn't exactly pull you away, either."

"Nothing would have stopped me," I tell him.

"I know. Alice knew, too."

"Promise me that you're not still in love with her." The words come out of my mouth before I can stop them. I've asked him about Alice before, and I'll probably ask again. It doesn't matter, but I want these assurances. To know that my fuck-up doesn't continue to hurt my friend.

"I'm not in love with her."

"Do you miss her?"

"I don't."

"If none of this had ever happened, would you be with her right now?"

"Probably," he admits, "but people like that… they show who they really are sooner or later."

"Sometimes I think maybe she wasn't lying. Maybe she really felt that this was something the country needed to know. Maybe it wasn't about me. She wanted to bring him down, and—"

"And she succeeded. And then she was on every talk show, and on the cover of how many books? Three? She almost had that job at NBC if Dad hadn't put a stop to it. The only reason she's stayed out of the limelight is because the last time she called, back in March, I told her that I wanted nothing to do with a fame whore like her. She promised to stop, and she has. Sooner or later she's going to realize that I don't care what she does, we're done… and then we'll probably see more of her, but until then…"

"I don't even care anymore. I feel so far removed from all of that. Maybe that's why I've been ignoring Peter's calls," I tell him. "He actually left a few messages this morning. Something about an interview, since the one year 'anniversary' is coming up. That's the last thing I need."

"So you'd write a book, but you wouldn't sit down for an interview?"

"I would write an honest book. Interviews are different. I would never sit down and be subjected to an interview conducted by any members of the media in this country. They're ignorant, judgmental, the questions they'd ask—"

"What about someone who's none of those things?" Jasper suggests. "You've always loved Bill and Rachel, Jon…"

"That's different… and even them… they'd probably realize how big something like this could be for them, and compile a list of questions Barbara Walters would ask."

"Or not. You never know how these things are going to go, and if you decide to speak to the media, you need people around to handle you, maybe even train you. I know Mom has some friends she could suggest. Just promise me that you'd never trust Peter or anyone else, and you'd come to me."

"Obviously."

"Call Peter back. I'm not saying that you should be giving any interviews, but you should always know what's going on around you. If people are interested in talking to you, find out who they are. Maybe it's someone you want to be talking to."

"Good point."

"Let's go watch a movie," he says. He holds out his hand, like he did earlier, and we walk to the living room together. We cuddle on the couch, and he kisses me a few times before my parents join us, but we never do the things I promised we'd do when we were in my room. He leaves in the morning, and it's not awkward, or strange, being together but not being together in any other way than just friends. He reminds me to call Peter, and then he reminds me about our plans, and when I nod he whispers and tells me that if I want, I can bring anyone I want. And for what seems like a very short second, I allow myself to picture someone with messy hair and a little boy smile walking on the beach beside me.

XxXxX

He calls me just as I'm about to turn off my phone and close my eyes. I'd rather not answer, because there's no reason to call someone just hours before you're supposed to meet them. He wants to cancel, so he should just leave a message. But Edward doesn't leave a message. He calls again.

"Bella?"

"Hey, it's pretty late. What's up?"

"I know. I'm sorry. Can you talk right now?" he asks.

"Sure."

"This is pretty embarrassing, but when I went camping last week, I managed to sprain my ankle and… pull a groin muscle—"

"Oh, and you just realized this tonight?"

"No," he says quickly, "but I thought a week would be plenty of time to recover. I guess I'm in worse shape than I thought."

He's a good liar. I could almost swear that he's not lying, but a last-minute injury? Come on, Edward, give me some credit. I'd love to say this to him and hang up, and then throw my phone against the wall, but I act like an adult instead. That's never fun.

"That's fine. I hope you feel better."

"Thanks, so, I thought maybe we could do something else, since I was looking forward to…"

I sit up and start paying attention. "Yeah, me too."

"Okay. Good."

I can hear him breathing on the other end, and I can hear myself breathing here. I need to say something, but if I stay silent for long enough…

"You should come over."

"What?"

"For breakfast," he says. "My family is away on vacation—"

"And you want me to come over because you don't want to go out."

"There aren't too many options in Forks."

"No, I know that," I tell him. "You'd run into at least a dozen people you know."

"Exactly, and I make a better breakfast than any of the diners and restaurants in town."

"Yes, and we'd eat it in the privacy of your own home. You know, with your family gone and everything."

"Bella—"

"Don't suggest things and make up reasons for not hanging out in public because you think I won't notice, or because it's more polite not to discuss my situation. I have no desire to be seen at the diner with you on a busy Saturday morning, and I'd love to come over for breakfast, but not if you're going to be like that."

"I didn't mean it that way," Edward says.

"You don't seem stupid, or naïve—"

"And I'm not. I apologize for failing to see how my invitation would come across. Last I checked, I told you to spend every morning of the summer on school property, with me. That's where I work, it's a place where I'm respected…"

"Listen, I'm sorry, but we barely know each other, and you're telling me to come over when your family is out of town—"

"So you don't want to come over."

"I do!"

"Then just come over," he tells me.

I shouldn't do it. People don't go over to someone's house for breakfast when the last time they were there they had random sex with them, and subsequently dealt with a sex scandal involving the President of the United States. But… I want to go. And I have at least a dozen reasons why I shouldn't go, but I don't want to burden him with any of that.

"W-what will you make for me?" Did I just have trouble saying 'what'?

"An omelet."

"Oh."

"With cheese and lots of vegetables."

"Okay…"

"You sound disappointed."

"Kind of," I confess. "Omelets are great, but I love carbs. So maybe I'd like some pancakes?"

"I assumed you were being health conscious, working out every—"

"Um, I can have pancakes. And I only run because I like where I run."

"I like where you run, too."

"Well, that's good to know, since you spend all of your time there."

"I used to not like it so much," he says.

"No?"

"It was boring."

"And it's not anymore?"

"It's still pretty boring, especially over the summer, but I have a few things I use to distract myself with."

"Such as?"

"Well, there were two days last week when I ran into someone I knew. That was pretty exciting," he tells me.

"Oh, was that person awesome?"

"I'm not sure, actually. I need more time to decide."

"Rude. Forget about breakfast."

"Come on, I need to determine your level of awesomeness."

"You've had plenty of chances," I tell him. I try to suppress the giggles that really want to escape from me.

"Fine, then I need a few more for you to find out that I'm awesome."

"That's true. Okay. Breakfast. Pancakes. Or omelets, actually. I like tea."

"No coffee?"

"Hmmm, coffee or tea… surprise me. Do you make good Bellinis?" I ask him.

"I've never made a Bellini in my life."

"Mimosas?"

"I've got beer."

"At ten in the morning?"

Edward laughs. "Is that when I should be expecting you?"

"I don't know. What time are you picking me up?"

"Ten."

"Okay."

"I'll be at your door at ten."

"You'll be in your car at ten," I correct him. "I'll run out and jump in."

"Hiding me from your parents?"

"I have a reputation to uphold. Also, they can't start approving of the company I keep just yet. I need to keep them miserable for just a little longer."

He laughs, and I take a second to catch my breath. There's so much to think about. I want to dissect each sentence, every word, every single reply, and question, and how his voice went lower, or maybe even higher a few times, and his different laughs, and… and… I'll have time to do all of that once I hang up. Except I doubt my ability to think about these things and keep my thoughts happy and pleasant. I know that once I hang up, Jasper's warning will fill my head, and all the words I said and heard tonight will be lost forever. So I talk, and he's eager to continue the conversation, which is good. Maybe by the time we hang up, I'll be too tired to think, and I'll close my eyes, and I'll open them in the morning, and there won't be any time for anything but getting ready for pancakes with Edward.

**Are reviews better than pancakes with Edward? I don't know, so review and help me figure this out. **

**You guys are great, and I love hearing from you, always. **

**xo  
**


	11. Chapter 11

**Nina makes this pretty. Indira and Tracy make me smile.  
**

**I don't own Twilight.**

What do you wear to breakfast with someone who's not really a friend, but breakfast really isn't a date, and it will get warmer later on, but it's chilly now? I have lots of pretty things I haven't looked at in months. I have a few new things I bought in Seattle this week. I have a positive attitude, and brown hair that's prettier than my natural color, but so close that you can't tell it's not.

Dad left early this morning to do things that don't involve fishing and Uncle Billy. He never explains, and Mom never asks. I think she knows because he tells her things when I'm not around. When I'm around it's silence and grunts, and the warmth I heard in his voice when he asked me to move here must have been something I imagined. Maybe I made it up because I needed a reason to leave New York and return to the town I never cared for. The one I left knowing I'd never come back. I knew so many things back then. I know absolutely nothing now.

I don't even know why Edward wants to spend time with me, and I don't know why I agreed to spend time with him. I feel… I feel as though I had no choice. Something deep inside my body twisted, and I loved the small, sudden explosion that followed. It surprised me. It thrilled me. Thrills are so rare these days. You don't ignore them. They're what you live for. They're what get you in trouble, but if you're smart enough you'll ride the wave and know when to stop—which is exactly what I did. My mistake was to lose myself in the fog and dizziness and excitement so much that I had to share my secrets with others. But that fog and dizziness and excitement… it's everything I felt when I was talking to Edward last night. I was surrounded in it. I felt it everywhere. I was breathing it.

So I should be on alert right now. I should be aware of everything he says, how he says it, what he means, and why he's saying it. I shouldn't tell him secrets or make any new ones I'll have to keep from the world. Anything you have to keep a secret is something you shouldn't be doing, something you shouldn't have heard, something you shouldn't have seen. But those things are what we live for. A little bit of gossip, a kiss, or two, or three, pictures that make your eyes pop open and elicit giggles… Secrets are my favorite. Sucks that I have a big mouth.

I check the weather on my phone. It's chilly enough for a sweater, but I can handle shorts for the few minutes I'll be outside. I want to look cute. I don't know if Edward likes what Jasper likes, but Jasper liked this outfit with pretty socks and desert boots. I don't know if Jasper liked the outfit because it's cute, or because he likes my legs, and he's a guy, and the deep v-neck of my loose sweater is something that just appeals to people who happen to be into breasts. I'm hoping Edward is into legs, and boobs, and ass, and long brown hair.

"Bella?"

"Yes?"

"Can I come in?" Mom asks.

"Sure."

The door opens and she walks in with my laundry, which she places on the bed. She sits down and starts folding while I tie my laces. It smells so good, so I sit on the bed and rub my face against a towel. She tells me to stop, because I'll get my makeup all over it.

"I'm not wearing any."

"No? Let me see."

I look up and stare at her. "Just some mascara. It won't rub off."

"You look pretty. Is that what you're wearing?"

"Yes."

"You can't run in those shorts," she says, her fingers reaching out to touch the denim.

"I'm not running."

"Change of plans?"

"Yes. We're having breakfast," I explain.

"With Edward?"

"Yes."

"Where is he taking you?" she asks.

"He's making it."

"Carlisle and Esme are in Florida this week."

"Who…" _Oh_.

"His parents, Bella." Her eyes are on the blue bra I keep telling myself I'm going to get rid of, but can't part with. She folds it and places it on the neat pile of colorful things I like to wear under my clothes.

"I'm not having breakfast with his parents."

"Well," she says, "I suppose it's better than going out for breakfast."

"Yes, that's what we thought." My voice is soft and sweet. It makes her look up, a little surprised. "We decided that I'm not the kind of girl men take out to places. Don't worry. This is all a big secret. You won't have to hear the details of my 'breakfast' with Edward on the news, and he'll continue to be perfect and innocent in your eyes."

My phone rings, telling me he's here. 10am. Perfect. It annoys me that he's on time. Be less perfect, Edward. I'd feel less bad.

XxXxX

"Sorry about that. My mother decided to start a conversation with me just as I was running out the door," I tell him as I slide into the passenger seat of his car. Red is a good color on Edward, but I don't tell him that.

"It's cool. What was the conversation about?"

"Oh, you know, the usual things you hear after you embarrassed your parents in front of the entire nation."

He laughs. His smile is so big when he turns to me. "I wondered if you'd kept your sense of humor."

"Oh?"

"You're a funny drunk, and hilarious when you first wake up in the morning."

"So we're going there? We're comfortable discussing our epic night of raunchy sex?"

"Epic night…" he repeats. "Nice."

"What? It was my last night of freedom. I think about it sometimes. I remember some parts, and probably made up the rest."

"Did you… know? Is that why you were..."

"Is that why I was drinking and trying to get stupid? No. That was mostly because I couldn't tolerate the people around me before we started talking. I had no idea, actually."

"Yeah, I didn't think you did," he says. "I mean, when I thought about it after… I wondered if you knew that it would soon become public knowledge…"

"No, I doubt I would have decided to get wasted, let people take pictures of me, and have sex with a stranger, had—"

"It wasn't like that."

"No?"

Edward looks ahead, his eyes on the road. He scratches his head, and his hair sticks up funny. I smile and look away.

"Okay, it was, but I didn't bring you back to my house to have sex with you."

"Were you planning on playing video games?" I laugh, remembering his room, and the mess, and the Xbox.

"No, but I didn't know what to expect. We hadn't even kissed at the party. We had barely touched."

I find his choice of words interesting, like he had thought about kissing me when we first met. "Did you want to kiss me at the party?"

"I dragged you to my house, didn't I?"

"But not to have sex."

"You're trying to get me to admit that I had sex on my mind," he says.

"Of course you did, and of course I am."

We make a sharp right, which makes me jump, before coming to a sudden and complete stop.

"We're here."

The house is nicer than I remembered. Pretty flowers everywhere on the porch, big windows, a swing. For a second I feel like the sun has come out, but I raise my eyes to the sky and confirm that it remains grey. I try to think back to the night I spent here last summer. We came in and left through another entrance. It was his big boy entrance, which led straight to his room.

"You just dragged me to your house again. Oh, you're smart."

"Bella, we're friends now."

I nod. I don't tell him that we're not, or that I want to go home because he just annoyed me more than my mother managed to annoy me with the little speech she gave as I was leaving. I know what he's saying. We're friends, and he has no expectations. We're friends, and he's not interested in the things that brought us here after the party last year.

"It's a mess," he says once we're standing outside the front door. "I cleaned up last night, but some of my buddies came over and I didn't have ti—"

"That's fine."

"Are you alright?"

"I'm great."

"Ready for breakfast?" He makes an effort to smile big and wide and make it real. I don't have to make an effort when I smile back, because it just happens.

"Sure. Lead the way."

He places a hand on my shoulder and it slides down a little until it settles on my back. I take a few steps, but I really don't know where I'm going, and the hallway is long. He laughs behind me and grabs my wrist.

"This way."

I'm smiling and letting him drag me to the kitchen. I guess I'm not annoyed anymore.

"I don't smell pancakes." I pout.

"I was waiting for you to get here. We can make them together."

The kitchen is huge. Alice wouldn't stop talking about how she needed a big kitchen for the big dinners she'd throw for her big family. I smile, even though he just let go of my wrist, until I realize what he just said. I can smile evil, secret, little smiles about Alice's plans for the future and how she fucked them up later.

"Um, I didn't sign up for this."

"Well, I don't know how to make pancakes," he informs me.

"You pour the stuff from the thing onto the thing, and…"

"You don't cook?"

"I do… sometimes."

"But not pancakes."

"Not pancakes," I confirm. "We can have omelets…"

"Yeah. Sure. Okay. Sit. I know how to make omelets."

"Do you need any help?"

"Can you make coffee?" he asks, looking a little flustered.

"Not well, but you won't spit it out."

"Can you pour some milk?"

"Yes." I nod, looking into his eyes. He's so lost, and confused. "Do you drink milk every morning because you want to be a big boy?"

He stares at me until it becomes just a little creepy. "Your eyes are huge," he finally says.

"Only when I make them huge." His mouth drops open, and I continue with a smile that ruins the big, round eye effect. "And now you're useless, just standing there, staring. Is that a box of Fruity Pebbles I see? Let's just have some of that. I can pour the milk."

"I can make omelets…"

"Come on, cereal is delicious."

"It's no big deal," he insists. "I invited you here—"

"So colorful, and sweet." I walk over to the refrigerator and stand on my toes to reach the box.

"Your socks are colorful."

"You're silly."

"The milk is there on the left… inside the fridge…" I turn around and catch him covering his face with his hands as he leans back against the counter.

"What?" I ask.

He shakes his head back and forth. I swear, he's such a kid. No wonder everyone loves him. He's a loveable child with really good grown man looks.

"Just hand me some bowls, Edward. This will be the best breakfast you've ever had."

We sit across from each other and eat. I point out that the pink flavor is the most recent addition to the cereal, and he says he doesn't remember because he never had Fruity Pebbles growing up.

"But you eat them now?" I ask.

"No, but Bree loves cereal."

"So you don't like Fruity Pebbles, and you've never had them before. You could've just told me."

"They're pretty good."

"But not the best breakfast you've ever had."

"I'll have to think about that. How about you? Best breakfast?" he asks before bringing another spoonful of pretty colors to his lips.

"Hmmm… I don't know yet, it's too early to tell."

"Tell me about its competition."

"Oh, then it will get all nervous, because it's competing with a pretty great breakfast."

"It won't," he assures me.

"Okay, well, the summer after I graduated from college, my boyfriend and I went to Europe. It was my second time there, but I'd never been to Italy, so he rented a car and we just drove around the country. It was a tiny, ugly convertible. I'm pretty sure it was a Peugeot, and I teased him for renting a French car." Edward smiles. He's looking at me like I'm saying something important he wants to hear… not something he has to hear. I sit up straighter and continue, trying not to talk too fast. I haven't told anyone a story in a long time, and I can't help the speed at which the words are pouring out of my mouth.

"So, anyway, we drove down to Pompeii, and then we did the Amalfi Coast. We stayed at this place, it was more of a bed and breakfast than a hotel, and it was run by a crazy guy and his third wife. It felt like we were staying with them, in their home, and we were a little cranky from the drive and our usual arguments, so when I woke up, I expected more disappointment and just ignored Jasper as we went out to have breakfast on the balcony. Edward, it was so beautiful. The sea, the yellow cloth napkins on the table, the blue plates and mugs… All I had was a croissant and some jam, and it was nothing special, but the sun was so bright, and the colors were so vibrant. The water kept calling out to me, and I wanted to run into it, splash around, get tired, sleep, and wake up to the yellow napkins again."

He gets up, walks over to counter, opens and shuts a few drawers, and returns to the table with something in his hand that makes me gasp. I've seen yellow napkins before—they don't make me gasp. But his sweetness… it makes my fingers reach out to him, wanting to touch him.

"Not cloth," he says, sliding one across the table to me.

"This breakfast wins." I take the napkin and have this strange urge to run it over my lips. I just keep smoothing it with my fingers instead. Edward pours himself more cereal and milk.

"So… your best so far?" I ask him.

"Mine's a downer."

I shrug.

"I warned you," he tells me, and I nod. "I mentioned my sister, Bree, before. When I was home for the summer after my freshman year at Dartmouth, we found out she was sick. We didn't know if the treatments would be effective, and needless to say, I didn't return to Hanover in the fall. Seattle was closer. Anyway—"

"Wait, I don't want to interrupt, but is she okay now?" I never ask intrusive questions, but I wonder if he wants me to ask about her illness.

"She's doing well."

"That's so amazing, that you'd stay here…"

"Anyone would do that same," he says with a shake of his head.

"No… not everyone would."

Edward shrugs. "I'm sure they'd have their reasons not to."

I nod and notice how I'm tapping my foot, just a little nervous, not sure what to say, or do. "Okay, so your best breakfast."

He smiles, so I guess I didn't say anything too stupid. "When Bree completed her final round of chemo, she still had to undergo some radiation. That last day, when we were done with both the chemo and radiation, I skipped my classes to drive her back home myself. I hadn't had breakfast that morning, and it was still before noon. Bree was in a great mood. She was tired, but she wanted to go out and celebrate. She didn't even eat, but I did, and she just sat there, smiling and reaching over to keep my hair out of my eyes."

"You had long hair?" I ask him, trying to imagine what he looked like.

"Longer, but not too long."

"So you were really happy that day."

"Yeah. It was a good day."

"No breakfast is ever going to beat that…_ and_ I think you've had enough cereal," I tell him when he reaches for the box again.

"I was going to pour you some more."

"I'm good, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Let me show you around," he says, standing up. "I'll deal with the bowls later, don't worry about it."

"I've seen your room, Edward." I'm just teasing and kidding around, but he's all serious.

"I have a new TV. It's nicer than that one in the living room. Unless you want me to take you—"

"I'd love to see the new TV."

It's a little awkward, sitting on his bed, watching the news with him. We're not touching, we're not lying down, and he tried to sit on the floor, but I told him not to be weird. An hour later, we're laughing because he's making me watching episodes of Arrested Development that I admitted I'd never seen. Twice, my head is on his shoulder for a second, because I'm laughing and moving around a lot, and he's close, and I don't want to be his friend.

"What do you want?" I blurt out.

"I'm sorry?" Maybe he didn't hear me; maybe he wants to make sure he heard me correctly.

"I'm not asking because I'm weird or insecure, but why do you want to be friends with me?"

"I don't know," he admits, his voice soft and low and barely there.

And I don't care.

I move until I'm lying down, my head on his pillow. He gets up and then sits cross-legged beside me.

"I'm hungry," he says.

"Already?"

"Yeah. Wanna grab something to eat downstairs?"

"I've been here since… I mean, did you have lunch plans or anything? Maybe I should leave."

"I can order pizza," he suggests. "Do you eat meat? What do you like on your pizza?"

"Onions and sausage and pepperoni and—"

"I'll be right back."

He runs off, and I want to call after him and tell him to be careful running in his socks. He can slip on the smooth wood floor that I was admiring on our way to his room. That would be funny, but I can probably find a better way to entertain myself than watching him fall on his way to do whatever he left to do.

His room is exactly like I remember. I shouldn't remember right now, because I remember things, and sounds, and touches. Shit. I really don't think I was quiet that night, and his family lives here, so close, and now I never want to meet them. But that's not something I have to worry about. The stupid, romantic little girl in me fantasized about sweet words and declarations and confessions. I told her to stop, but she wouldn't. In those fantasies, he told me he wanted me, he couldn't stop thinking about me, that night was special, blah, blah, blah. Obviously, he was never going to say these things, but now I'm a little less happy, a little less excited. Maybe disappointed, but not really.

I stand up and walk over to where his closet is. He has old campaign stickers and other random things covering the door. I run a finger over a name that is almost always followed by mine these days, and the words under that name are funny, a little cruel, and so irrelevant now that he is no longer in power. I bet Edward wants to know what I saw in him. Or maybe he totally gets it. And if he gets it, does that mean he doesn't judge me because he _gets_ it? Or does he judge me because he knows what power and excitement and the forbidden do to me?

"So I ordered—" He stops when he sees me standing in front of his closet.

"Oh, I'm just checking to see what skeletons you have hiding in there."

"Nothing exciting," he says. "I promise you, there's absolutely nothing about me that's exciting or interesting."

"Oh."

"Disappointed?"

"No…"

He grins. Then he stretches and yawns, and the skin and the strip of hair from that morning in the classroom are back. I want to jump on him, back him up against the wall and rub myself against him, all over him.

"Yeah you are," he finally says, throwing himself onto his bed. "But it's okay."

Edward Cullen gets it.

**I apologize for the lack of pancakes.**

**I really want to know what you guys think of Edward. If you're meh about that, just tell me about your best breakfast, or maybe just say 'hi'… **

**xo**


	12. Chapter 12

**Thanks to Writeontime and Ciaobella27. **

**I don't own Twilight.  
**

Some of my best memories come from late afternoons and early evenings spent with friends on campus. I remember the sadness that would momentarily distract me from the conversations I was engaged in when I realized that no matter how perfect a day was, it would have to end. A need to capture the moment and make the day last forever would flare up inside me, but it would quickly disappear, because someone would say something, and I'd have to laugh, or come up with something just as wonderful to say in response, and the day would end, but an even better one would start. It went on and on.

It's not dark out yet, but the sun has almost set. Last week, the week before, and for weeks and weeks before that, I would breathe a sigh of relief because the day was over, and I could sleep, and maybe I'd wake up to something completely different, or maybe I wouldn't get out of bed at all. I don't feel relieved that the day is coming to an end tonight, but I also don't feel the almost-sadness I felt creeping up inside me when the sun set on my day with Edward.

It's been three days since we ate cereal and pizza and lay on his bed, and I haven't heard from him. I haven't returned to the school or called him myself, and it confuses me how a day spent getting to know a person can actually push you further apart. Spending the day with him made it more awkward to be his friend, or acquaintance, or whatever I am. Spending the day with him and then not hearing from him makes me reluctant to go back, ever. I'll eventually run into Edward, since this town is small and he seems to be everywhere, all the time. I will have to wait until that happens to see how he acts, and whether or not he comes up with excuses that will annoy me and make me lose the respect I have for him.

I didn't really think about it the first day. My mind kept replaying the most interesting parts of our dialogue, or the most perplexing looks I caught on his face, or the silences that were anything but silent, the ones you never really want to fill. I didn't expect him to contact me immediately. I didn't think I would have so much trouble contacting him myself. Then yesterday, I realized that I couldn't do it. I had Mom's keys, and I was going to drive to the high school and park where Jake had parked, and I was going to send Edward a text letting him know I was there, but it never happened. There's no point going over why—it just didn't. And I could think about why he didn't ask me where I was and why I didn't show up, and I could convince myself that he was disappointed and decided not to contact me after that, but that's bullshit. If people want to talk to you, if they really want to hear your voice, and make plans, and ask you questions, and be a part of your life, they do it. He didn't. It makes me want to break small, delicate, pretty things and think mean thoughts about him.

Edward is the distraction I need from everything else going on in my life. But now it's like I need a distraction from my distraction, and while it would probably be smart to let go and forget about him, I really just want to hold on and think about how we were sharing a pillow, and the three seconds I allowed my hand to be on his thigh, and the seven seconds his hand spent on mine. I told Angela about those ten seconds. She thinks I really like him, and that he's not just a distraction. I obviously do, but it's impossible to allow myself to think that he could be anything else.

Angela also thinks that Edward must like me, but she's the friend who tells her friends the things they want to hear, no matter how absurd or unlikely or ridiculous. And of course I want to hear that he likes me, wants me, thinks about me even though he's not asking me to sit on his bed and eat the crusts he discards after finishing the cheesy part of his pizza. I want to hear these things, but I probably won't believe them even if he shows me a thousand times, or tells me in the prettiest sentences that make me want to spin around, and jump, and kiss, and do all the things you want to do when boys make you feel special.

'Special' is one of those words I want to erase from my vocabulary. It can also disappear from my brain. Useless. It's never a good thing when you think you're special, because you probably never are, and you probably never were, and eventually you figure that out. You figure it out when your boyfriend who swore you were the best, _best_, most special ever finds someone who makes him forget every minute you spent together. You figure it out when the relationship you thought was special and different is viewed by your friends, and family, and strangers everywhere as something dirty and cheap. Nothing more than a series of filthy words whispered in quiet, empty spaces, and a pretty, skillful mouth.

What does Edward think about my mouth? Was it pretty when I was eating Fruity Pebbles, or smiling, or pouting when he couldn't find his high school yearbook to show me the picture he had been describing? Has he thought about all of the things it's done and where it's been? Does he remember how it felt on his mouth, and neck, and everywhere else? None of the above? All of the above? Am I still thinking about this? Why do I care?

Probably because there's nothing quite like knowing that someone thinks about you. I'm not even talking about how romantic it is, or how sweet. Just the notion that you hold a tiny bit of power over that person, because something about you did something to them that makes them think about what you did, and how you did it. I like that. I remember each time I was told that instead of focusing on conversations with heads of state, someone was thinking about my eyes, the skin behind my ear, or the taste of my neck. The excitement made me dizzy. The contentment made me want to lie back and purr like a perfect little kitten. I was perfect and little and wanted and powerful. It was the best feeling.

I'll never forget that afternoon at Blair House. He was begging me to fuck him. _Please, please, please. _He couldn't break his "no sex" rule, but he wanted it so badly, and I was teasing him, telling him no, no, no because I promised we wouldn't, even though I knew, I just knew I was going to get on top and ride him, and feel him, and then he wouldn't be able to stop… The sharp knock on the door put an end to our afternoon. The flashing of my phone puts an end to this trip down memory lane. It also gives me a reason to stretch and smile and feel good, good, good, and I don't think anymore before I answer.

He asks me if I want to hang out. I tell him I do. He tells me he'll be over in a bit. I'm naked and looking for something to wear before we've hung up. He's wearing a red cap and missing the smile that doesn't annoy me. I try to find it, and it's almost there a few times, but I give up because forced smiles don't mean anything.

XxXxX

"Who are we hiding from?" I ask him in the dark. I lean in closely when I whisper the words. I shiver a little when he tells me we're not hiding. His mouth is too close to my ear and should be doing things to it, and I want him to shiver too, so I lean in closer when I tell him he's lying.

"My friends think I'm out tonight. When that red car leaves, we can turn on the light."

I look out the window with him and see the car parked across the street. "Is that your friend's car?"

"Yeah." He nods.

"He lives across the street from you?"

"Yeah, he moved in with his fiancée's family when he lost his job," Edward explains.

"That must suck."

He shrugs and keeps staring out the window.

"So you think he'd notice if your lights were on?" I ask.

He nods again.

"And you don't want him to know we're here."

More nodding and staring out the window.

"Was he at the bar that night?"

Edward finally turns and looks at me. His eyes are big and his frown is real. Apologetic. I want to rub my finger over it and make it disappear. Wipe it off.

"Yeah, but he's a good guy, Bella—"

"Whatever, I don't care what your friends think."

"No?" he asks.

I shake my head. "No. I judge them just as much as they judge me."

"You know nothing about them."

I'll probably have many chances to be honest with Edward and let him know how I think, and what I think. I could wait a few weeks or months to let him in, or I can just show him now. I'm not desperate enough to hang around someone who I have to be a different person for. I think Edward gets me. I don't want to push and push just to make sure, but it's almost like a reflex. See how far you can take things. See how vulgar you can get. See how long you can last without flashing a smile. It's almost exciting. It's definitely scary. Sometimes it's very final.

"I know enough," I say, running my fingers over the thin sheet covering his messy bed. "I know they're living here, they're really not attractive, they probably have shitty, dead-end jobs, because I doubt they're all teachers, or whatever. I know I'd never touch them with a ten-foot pole because I'm better than them, and I know you think I'm a terrible person for saying these things to you about your friends, but it's not like you're surprised. They're your friends, but you know I'm right. I'm here because you want to be around something different."

"And it makes no difference to you that they're good people," Edward says.

"Should it?"

"It should."

"Good or bad, people judged me. Excuse me for not giving enough of a fuck to give them the benefit of the doubt."

"You don't know that they judged you," Edward replies. "For all you know, they thought you were the victim, or that you did nothing wrong."

"Yes, yes. I'm sure there are lots of people like that, but I don't go around assuming everyone is like that, because most likely, that's not the case. And also, your friends laughed at me. I get it, they were at a bar, blah, blah, boys will be boys, ha ha, their buddy fucked the—"

"I apologized for that."

"I know you did, but you're awesome. We've established that."

"Have we?" he asks.

"Pretty much."

Jasper would say that Edward's a bad friend. Jasper would stick up for his boys no matter what. He'd kick a girl out if she badmouthed his friends. He thinks I'm disloyal and can't be trusted because I don't immediately react in the same way he does. Things are so black and white for him, but that's not me. The only thing I see in black and white is my life since everything that happened. I'm not ready to think things through and play in the grey areas yet, but it looks like Edward appreciates the grey. He spends some time there—maybe because he likes to think things through, or maybe it just seems like he does because he doesn't care enough either way.

"I'm sorry I was a dick to you earlier. In the car, I mean."

"Yeah, what's going on?" I ask him.

"Bad day."

"You don't want to talk about it."

He shrugs.

"Okay, I'll let you sulk," I say. "I'm just not sure why I'm here."

"Yeah, it was pretty selfish of me to ask you to hang out tonight."

"I don't mind. I got back at you by telling you that your friends are losers."

"For the most part, they are," he admits.

"See? How hard was that? I bet you feel better."

He laughs, and then he's reaching out and grabbing my hand. In the dark, there is nothing like the seconds you spend joining your fingers with someone else's for the first time. You feel every little thing. You make note of it all. You hold your breath for a second once your fingers are still, once his hand is no longer moving. It's just holding yours, resting there between two bodies, making everything quiet but the beat of your heart and the little breaths you finally take. It's old and new, familiar and unfamiliar. A first you can have a thousand times, but one that only matters those few times that lead to things that make you feel too much. And I know that he's going to make me feel too much.

A car starts outside, and we hear it drive off. Edward doesn't get up to turn on the light. By now, it's completely dark out, and I look out the window, up at the sky, wondering when it will be clear enough again to show me a star. I know nothing about them, just that sometimes they're there, and sometimes they're not. I'd like to see more of them, but most of the time I never think to look.

"Sometimes I just want to be in awe of something," I start, not sure if I'm talking to myself or talking to Edward. It's strange to hear myself speaking when I'm not responding to a question, or defending or explaining myself in some way. I take a second to recognize the voice, make sure it's mine, before I continue. "I want to wake up and feel like, oh my god, I'm alive. I remember waking up like that… knowing that maybe today I'll see something, or do something amazing. I'd make plans. I'd picture myself in the prettiest places, doing things. Swimming in this sea, finally reading that book, looking out at something, a monument, or some famous scenery, and it would be like… wow, this is amazing, I'm here. I don't care about any of that anymore. I never think these things. It's scary… like I've lost this part of me. I think it makes me dead inside."

My hand is still in his hand. Or maybe his hand is in mine. I like the silence and want it to continue, but he speaks.

"You're scared, so it has to mean something to you. You haven't lost it yet."

I want to tell him that's not enough, and then I want to keep talking. I don't know where it all came from, but everything I told him is everything that's been killing me for months. I guess I like sharing secrets in the dark. Maybe I'm waiting for him to hand me another yellow napkin. I look at our hands; it makes me think a lot. I've been talking about missing that sense of amazement, and wanting to look forward to new and wonderful things. This is new, and if this isn't amazing, it at least has the potential to become something that is. I don't know what to do with any of it, but I can lie here next to him until it's time to go. Time passes, and I think he's fallen asleep. I close my eyes and don't bother to stifle the yawn that escapes from me.

"I managed to fuck this up, didn't I?" he asks. He doesn't sound sleepy.

"Fuck what up?"

"Tonight."

"I don't know what tonight was supposed to be, so I can't make a fair assessment of—"

"I wanted to spend some time with you," he cuts me off. "I thought about it until I couldn't think anymore, and I called you. It's like the book you wanted to read, or the scenery…"

He stops. I want to tell him that I'm in awe of everything that's happening, the words he's saying, the person he is. I want to tell him, but I want the rest of the words said out loud tonight to be his, because they're everything mine can't be right now. So I don't say anything. I move closer and kiss his cheek. It's easy to stay here, my head resting against his shoulder, my fingers in his. It's easy to stay, so I stay. I close my eyes and plan an endless night of kisses, or a night of endless kisses. I see it all, and it's the prettiest. I think about it until I can't think anymore, and I have to do something about it. Just for tonight, I'm alive.

**I don't think their evening ends here. I was pretty nervous writing/posting this chapter, and I'd love to know what you think. Or just stop by and say "hello"...**


	13. Chapter 13

**Thank you Writeontime and Ciaobella27. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

I think too much about the things I want to do with him tonight. I try to catch my breath, wondering where it went and what took it away, because I've done nothing but lie here, my head against his shoulder, my hand in his hand, and my legs dangling off his bed. My heart is doing crazy things in my chest. I don't know if it's him, or if it's the night, with its darkness and silence, its promises of things that happen between lovers. Sometimes it has that effect on you, even when you're sitting with someone who's just a friend, or when you're alone. You expect a touch, a few whispers, pretty words, and then it torments you with the reminder that there's nothing you can feel around you, no matter which way you reach. Nothing to grasp. No one close enough to hear your voice, your cries. If you're lucky, you sleep, and night is the best thing, because it's the end of another lonely day. But sometimes it goes on and on, and it's easier to be fooled in the dark. You close your eyes to fantasize, right? Try to see things and hear things that don't exist. They exist in your mind. It's so much easier to do in the dark.

He's holding my hand. His words were confusing, but I understood. And now all I can hope for is that I don't mess anything up, because I want him to continue thinking about me after he drops me off tonight. This thing I'm feeling, like I can look up and open my eyes right now and see his eyes looking down at me. This thing can't just be the night and my fantasies playing tricks on me. I'd like to think that I'd feel it in the morning, and that he'd hold my hand in the morning, too. I'm not making it up. I'm not making up the movements of his fingers, how he's pulling me to him, how his hand is on my stomach, how fast his heart is beating under the cotton and the skin that are so soft against my face.

I move until my cheek rests on the skin above the highest button Edward buttoned. I want to tilt my face until the hair there tickles my lips. This reminds me that he's not a boy. I shiver a little. His arms are around me now, holding me against him, bringing me to rest on top of him, my back against his chest. I must be small and light, and he must not mind my weight. I stare at the ceiling and wait for more. But if all he wants is for me to lie here until he's ready to let me go, I'll do that. It's nicer than lying on my bed at home, or the couch, or anywhere far from him.

"You're hungry," he tells me.

"No, I'm not."

"I heard it." His hand covers my stomach again, rubbing up and down as he laughs, until I take it and bring it up to my mouth. I kiss his palm. His mouth is on my cheek. He kisses my face, and kisses it again.

"What do you want?" he asks.

"I'm really not hung—"

"From me."

"What do you mean? You wanted to hang out," I remind him. "You brought me here."

He hugs me tighter and shushes me, like I'm a child. I want to say so many things. I hate how angry I get, and how it takes me no time to become this angry.

"Relax, I didn't mean it like that," he says. "But I told you I was thinking about you. I want—"

"I want that, too."

"I didn't even tell you what I want."

"I don't care. I want what you want." I'm not going to get anything more, so I might as well take what I can get. "And I want you to think about me."

"I think about you," he says. His mouth is by my ear, and I hope this is what he wants, because it's definitely something I can want. When I feel the wet, the warm, I move against him and try to breathe. He doesn't know this, but I love kisses behind my ear, down my neck. And when they're not really kisses, but just sloppy, wet touches of a tongue, I die a little.

"Stop that for a second."

He stops immediately. He finishes with a kiss over the skin he was licking and sucking.

"Okay, no, continue. I don't feel like talking."

Edward listens. I like that. I like the kisses. I like the sounds I hear myself making. They're new and different. They sound almost happy. I like that he hasn't shaved recently. I like how it tickles. I like how I giggle and almost squeal, and how he tries harder. And then it really tickles. And then he's on top of me, making me giggle some more, making me squeal and beg and kick.

"Stop, stop, stop," I tell him. And he laughs and laughs. It's pretty. He's pretty. I wrap my legs around him, and he drops all of his weight onto me. He's heavy. His face is in my neck. I want him to look at me. I want to see what he looks like looking at me. Maybe I'll see a bit of myself. I want to make sure he sees that I'm sure. That I want the things he seems to want to do to me. I want to know that I look carefree and light and happy right now. If I don't, his face would tell me. It's something you notice when a person reacts to what they see. You can't hide that, or stop it. It just happens. I want him to look at me and tell me I'm okay with this.

"So this is what you want?" I ask him.

The weight is gone, but he's still here. When our eyes meet, I know he sees a happy girl.

"You can tell me. I won't be mad." I move into his arms again, and rest my head on his shoulder, where my head really likes to rest.

"It's so dark in here," he says.

"Well, yeah. We're hiding from your friends, family, neighbors…"

"We're not hiding."

"No?"

"He's gone, we're good."

"Why were we hiding from him?" I ask.

"I told him I had class."

"Class? At night?"

"I'm taking the GRE next month."

"Really?"

Edward nods. "Yeah."

"You want to go back to school?"

"Yeah, hopefully soon."

"I did really well on the GRE," I tell him. "I love standardized tests. I could take them over and over again."

"I hate math."

"Me too, but it's pretty basic stuff."

"I guess."

"It's pretty cool that you want to go back to school," I say. "Where? In Seattle?"

"I'm hoping to get away from Washington."

"Oh. Well, I was supposed to start grad school last fall, but…"

"Kennedy School of Government. I know."

"Stalker!"

"You told me," he says with a smile. "And then, yeah, I stalked you."

I scratch down his arm because I do weird things when I pretend to be annoyed. He's a little surprised, maybe even shocked, but he laughs before he frowns, and he rubs his arm over and over again, shaking his head at me.

"I was wondering about that, actually. Are you going back to school in the fall?"

"No… I don't think I want to. I mean, I want to go back to school, but definitely not there. Public policy? No. No thanks."

"So you're staying here?" he asks me.

"I guess? I don't know. I don't want to, but it's not like there's anywhere I want to go."

"Nowhere?"

"Not really. First I have to figure out what I want to do."

"You just said you wanted to go back to school."

"Eventually… but I need to do something to support myself," I explain.

"Yeah." He nods. "Isn't there anything… I mean, I'm sure if…"

"I get some offers for stupid things. Wanna help me write a book?"

"Sure, what's it about?"

"Me, obviously."

"I'd have to get to know you better," he says in a quiet voice. I tense up a little. Quiet voices do that to me right before they make me lose control.

"Yeah, pretty boring."

"You? Boring?"

"I guess not." I laugh.

"I can ask you questions," he tells me.

"One intrusive question a day, please."

"I'll compile a list."

"Okay, but now let's just not ask questions. Tickle me again, or something. It's nice when you touch me."

"I don't want to tickle you," he says. He's suddenly so close. I mean, his mouth is so close to mine. Our noses touch, almost. Then they actually do.

"No? Fine. Then tell me why you lied to your friend about tonight."

"I wanted to get out of something."

"What?"

"A double date," he answers.

"With?"

"My friend, his wife, his wife's friend." I frown and he grins.

"And instead of being honest, you—"

"I wanted to kiss you."

But he doesn't just kiss me. He doesn't go straight for my mouth. He kisses my cheeks, my jaw, my chin. He kisses the corners of my mouth. Everywhere, all around. It's sweet. It's warm. It's cute. I want to giggle, but I can't. I don't. I'm amused, then I'm stupid. I'm staring at him, then closing my eyes. I'm stupid and my eyes are closed. I can't really think, I can't… I can't. His hands are holding my face. I'm frozen under him. I don't want to pant like an idiot, but I feel like it's coming. He looks at me and smiles. He knows. He's fucking with me. He rubs his nose against mine, I rub back. What am I doing? I put my hands on his chest, I grab his shirt, I wrap my legs around him again, I'm going to kiss him—I don't care. I'm going to kiss him, but then he kisses me first. It's soft and hard and sweet and hot. My arms go around his neck. My legs try to force him down against me, on me. I think he resists for a second, but then he's everywhere. He's lying between my legs, I'm moving around like crazy, trying to feel and feel and touch and feel. I want to tell him I love his body and his skin and how warm he is, but I can't, because his mouth is on my mouth. He licks, he kisses, he sucks a little. My mouth is going to be so red. Swollen. I'll love it. I'll stare at it in the mirror, I'll smile, I'll want to touch myself thinking about it. I'll lick my lips thinking about how he tastes and how he kisses and God… I need to breathe.

We breathe together. On each other. Back and forth, like we're talking. In and out. It's nice.

"Let's do it again. I want to do it a lot before I have to go."

"I can climb in through your window and kiss you later," he says. I know he's kidding, but just in case he's not…

"You really can't."

"You don't have to go home."

"I do…"

He's moving down, down until his mouth is on my chest. He's too distracted to pay attention to me or talk to me. I have to pull his face off of me because his almost-beard is going to make me regret wearing what I'm wearing when I go home and my parents are sitting in the living room. They'll look at me, and my chest will be all pink or red, and that's so much worse than having a swollen mouth or even dark, awesome spots on my neck.

"Stop molesting me," I finally say. "Maybe when you're a big boy and have your own place, and we don't have to hide and be weird, you can scratch me with your beard and give me hickeys everywhere."

He responds by biting down hard just above my left breast.

"Ow! Oh my God! I get it. Sorry. Stop that!"

He kisses the skin he bit, and he's off me, sitting beside me on his bed, legs crossed.

"Wanna meet my brother?" Edward asks.

"Huh?"

"I think I heard him pull into the driveway. Do you want to meet him? I'm thirsty. Let's go downstairs."

"No… I..."

"I'll get us something to drink, then," he says. "But don't accuse me of hiding you up here when I come back."

I want to stick my tongue out at him, and I don't want him to go right now, even if it's just for a few minutes to grab some drinks.

"Wait."

"What?"

I pull on his sleeve to keep him next to me. "I have questions now."

"Like what?"

"Like, who was your date? That's so rude, canceling on someone like that." But smart. You're here with me.

"I wasn't rude, don't worry."

"Answer my question."

"I told you," he says, "a friend of theirs. I don't know her."

"Do you do that often? Go on blind dates?"

"No."

"Do you have regular… you know, fuck buddies? Friends with benefits? Are you dating anyone?" I'm eager. Like a child. Maybe he's turning me into a female version of himself. I'm tugging on his sleeve again. I want to know things about this man. This boy. This person who kisses nice and makes me think in bright colors.

"Wow." He rubs his hand down the back of his head. He's still smiling. "One intrusive question a day, please."

"That was hardly intrusive."

Edward lies down, bringing a pillow to rest under his head, and pulls me down next to him.

"There are a few—"

"A few. Wow."

"Relax, they're not—"

"_They. _Oh."

"I'm not dating anyone," he sighs.

"You're just sleeping with them."

"You're putting words in my mouth."

"So then tell me."

"Tell you what?"

"If I'm wrong, correct me," I tell him. He looks confused for a second, so I mess up his hair a little. "I'm not judging you, I'm just curious. I like to know things about people I kiss."

"I've dated before. I know some women who I hang out with sometimes. I'm pretty sure you've had relationships like that."

"No. I was with the same person for years. Anything outside of that… I don't know. There was you, and well, obviously you know about _him_, and I didn't even—"

"I don't care," Edward says with a shrug. "It doesn't matter to me."

"Right. It's not like we're dating. You want to fool around or sleep with me while I'm in Forks, and it really doesn't matter how many people I've been with, because it's not like—"

"Sure, Bella. That's all I want."

"Well, there, you said it," I mumble.

"I told you I like you."

I don't say anything for a minute or two, but then I say what's been on my mind, what I really didn't want to bring up. "You didn't call for three days, and then you brought me up here to mess around in the dark."

"I didn't call for three days because I wanted to make sure I like you enough."

"Fuck you."

I'm finally off his stupid bed, and I'm putting my shoes back on. I hate that he drove me here, and I'll have to ask my parents to pick me up. Or Jake. I can call Jake. I'm sure Edward wouldn't mind dropping me off, because he's nice and polite and all those fake, stupid things, but I don't want to be around him. Maybe I should go downstairs and ask his brother. And then maybe I can kiss him, or blow him, or fuck him in the car, and then I'm pretty sure I'll never hear from Edward again. I can't believe I let him kiss me. I can't believe I let him hold my hand. And then we were talking, like I give a shit that he's going to school or taking a test or having sex with the entire population of Forks. Clearly he's an underachiever who talks about going away and doing things and not being stuck here, but he'll be teaching at that high school until I come back to put my parents into a retirement home. Because if they continue acting like assholes, that's where both of them are going to end up. Ugh. I can't believe I let myself think for a second that maybe I can hold his hand in other places, different cities, far away. That maybe when he leaves, I can leave with him. Or when I leave, he can join me. I always let myself get carried away in my head, and I see things, and it's all so detailed. I'll always be wearing that pretty skirt with the floral pattern and those tights, and he'll be in that coat. But I'm pretty sure I'm never holding his hand again. Not here. Not walking down Amsterdam, or in the Park, or… Right, like he'd ever get into a decent school in New York. He wishes. He can go spend his days thinking about liking me enough while screwing waitresses behind the diner, because really, who else is he hooking up with in this town?

"I'll take you home," he says quietly.

"That would be nice."

I make sure my back is very straight when I'm walking in front of him. I take out my phone and start typing out a text to Jasper. I know he can read the large font and Jasper's name, if he looks. And he'll look. People are curious. I stop texting long enough to walk down the stairs. That's all the time I need to realize that I overreacted, but I'm not going to admit that right now, because I have to think about this when he's not so close to me. I'm distracted by my thoughts as I walk down the hallway, and fail to notice the large figure standing in my way.

"Careful there. You should watch where you're going."

It's the asshole from the bar. The one from the party. His smile is huge. His teeth are the whitest. I don't care. I'm not smiling back.

"Excuse me," I say, trying to get past him. He moves out of my way, so I continue walking towards the kitchen, because we came in through the back door earlier.

"You guys coming back? I'm heating up some of the food Mom left for us."

"I'll be back in a few, Emmett." His voice is hard. He's angry. Good. Or not. I feel bad, but not bad enough.

"Isabella, it was nice meeting you!"

I'm not a rude person. I can do this. I turn around and nod. "Nice meeting you too, Emmett."

"Listen, Isabella, I should apologize for what happened—"

"It's cool, Edward explained."

"You know how it—"

"It's very nice of you to want to apologize, but believe me, I'd rather not talk about it."

"Hey, just trying to do the right thing here," Emmett says.

"Yeah. Thank you."

"Are you sure you don't want to stay? Our mother's a really good cook."

"Yeah, Bella, stay."

Why do I like his voice as much as I do? I hate that this is the first thought that goes through my mind even after everything that happened. But what happened? He was honest, but not in a good way. He was honest in a way that hurt me, and I don't need things or people in my life that can hurt me.

"No, I'd need at least three days to think about whether or not I like you enough to stay. The food would be gone by then. Your brother looks hungry."

With a wave to Emmett, I open the door and walk outside. Edward is right behind me. His hand is on my shoulder.

"Come on," he says.

"I'm not hungry. Tell Emmett I said thanks."

"I don't care about that."

"Just… let's go," I tell him. "Come on."

"So it's not enough to tell you that I like you, that I want this?"

I shrug. "Want _what_?"

I'm pushed up against the side of the house, and he's kissing me. Real, long, good, deep kisses. I hear the rain, and I guess I feel some of it, too, but mostly I just feel him. If I could fly, if I could soar, I'd be up so high right now. If I could give everything, he'd have it all.

**You guys are awesome. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and if you did, please let me know. I love hearing from you.**

**xo**


	14. Chapter 14

**Thank you Writeontime and Ciaobella27.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

When he stops kissing me and his body isn't pressed against mine, I tell him I'm cold and pull him to me.

"Let's go back inside," he says. And he kisses my forehead. Something about that makes me bury my face in his shirt, rubbing it against his chest while my fingers tug on the fabric they'd love to move under. I want to touch his skin so badly.

"No."

"No?"

"It's late, and I don't want to be rude to Emmett and go straight upstairs," I explain.

"We don't have to go straight upstairs."

"Do you really want to eat or hang out in the kitchen with your brother?"

I look up in time to see his smile and the quick, vigorous shake of his head that I think I like a lot.

"No."

"Well, it's drizzling. We should… I guess I should go home."

"You don't want to stay?" he asks me.

"I can't stay."

"You've stayed before."

"That was different."

He keeps shaking his head 'no' and I keep nodding 'yes'.

"Not really," he insists. His fingers are in my hair and I feel a tug when he wraps a strand around his finger and starts to play.

"Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

"I do."

"You have to get up early."

"I'll get up early with you next to me," he says.

"No, no, no. Be good."

His eyes are on the lock of hair he's been playing with, and he does the weirdest thing. He brushes the end over his lips, and then smiles.

"I'll be good," Edward promises.

"Liar," I whisper.

He kisses my nose. "Never."

He slides his hand under my shirt and it moves up until he's touching my breast. It's so cold. I almost don't want him to touch me under my bra, or maybe I want that, and then I want his mouth to warm up my skin right after. I want a lot, and it's the worst thing, but I want and want.

His hand moves again and it's the best surprise when it starts rubbing me between my legs. I kiss him and let him touch me. It's warm now. So warm. And I think the rain has stopped. I can't believe we're outside.

"We're outside."

"It's dark," he says, but his hand is on my hip now, and his mouth is leaving the most random kisses on my face and hair.

"I know, but… anyone can drive by, and you know, lights… I think I should go home."

"Okay. That's the third time you've said that, and I won't argue with you again."

Usually I'm disappointed when someone isn't begging me to stay, begging me to sleep with him, but I feel strangely calm now, and the feeling of rejection I'm waiting for doesn't come. I actually wait for it. I wait for it to take over, ruin this night, make me uglier, but I feel fine. I stretch up and pull him down, and kiss him on the cheek. We hold hands walking to his car. I grab his hand again once we're inside. Then I wrap my arms around his arm and don't let him use it. I'm so clingy. I should be cringing at myself, but he's warm, his shoulder is comfortable, and I like him.

"I thought you didn't like to cuddle," Edward says.

"I don't."

"I do."

"Well, this works out for you, then. Maybe you _should_ break into my room later. I'd cuddle tonight. I'm feeling… I don't know. But I'd let you hold me."

"Just tonight?" he asks.

"I don't know. I can't be sure. But definitely tonight."

"I want you to let me hold you lots of nights."

This makes me rub my cheek against his shoulder.

"Tell me what to do, because I want to do whatever it takes," he says.

This makes me sit up, and I let go of his arm. I want to listen to his words, and I want to participate in this conversation using words of my own.

"Why?"

"Promise you won't interrupt?" he asks.

"Of course."

"The night we met, I overheard a conversation you were having with some kids, and I thought you were funny. Then you turned around, and you were really hot. You have no idea how difficult it is to meet new people here. I felt like I'd won something when you smiled at me and talked to me. By the end of the night I was pretty sure I really liked you, and that I wanted to see you again.

"You were still on my mind when I saw your face on the news and heard about everything. I was pretty surprised. It was you, but it really wasn't. I kept waiting to see you, the girl I'd met at the party, and I was disappointed when she didn't come out. Everything I saw, the way you were portrayed, was bizarre. I'd argue with Emmett about it. Eventually I gave up and admitted that I didn't actually know you.

"When we started getting bits and pieces of your initial testimony, I realized that people are complicated," he continues. "We react to the situations we find ourselves in, we adapt. Your expressions, the vibe you gave off were only a part of who you are. Not the best part, but that didn't mean I forgot how much you smiled and giggled at the party. I thought you were so passionate. The way you spoke and told stories, everything about you when we were alone. I don't know, Bella. Watching this happen to you really changed my perspective on… everything. And you were so brave. Your face broke my heart so—"

I'm sitting so close to the door right now, my arms wrapped around me. He's watching me, eyes wide open and honest, saying things I don't want to hear.

"Please stop. This isn't what I… I can't."

"I know you don't want to talk about it," he says, "but—"

"I asked you why you like me. This has nothing to do with that. Don't… I wasn't brave. I cried all the time. And that… that was me. My expressions, that vibe? Me. And it's not the best part, but it's the dominant part. I'm not passionate. I told you tonight how I feel nothing, I want _nothing_. I wasn't adapting, or reacting. I was angry because I was being humiliated, and I wasn't going to waste a single smile on any of you. It was a circus, and I was forced up there against my will. I'm not a freak show, and I'm not a charity case. You don't score extra points for hanging out with me."

"You won't let me finish."

"No? Then finish," I tell him. "My face broke your heart. I can't even…" I feel so humiliated again. I'll never be able to escape this. Everything is about this.

"All I meant to say was that anyone who bothered to look close enough saw a beautiful woman who—"

"Oh come _on_." He can't be serious. He's fucking with me.

"Fine," he says. "I bothered to look. I watched for months. Maybe it was because I'd met you right before it happened, but I knew that you didn't deserve it."

"I'm not going to thank you for giving me the benefit of the doubt, Edward. I don't care about that. I fucked up and I wasn't discreet. Everything else… none of it matters. And none of this has anything to do with why you want to spend time with me now. I'd rather just hear that you had a great time with me last summer, and want to do it again."

"You're right," he concedes. "It doesn't. I just wanted you to know all of this before I told you that the night I saw you at the diner with your parents, I wanted to turn around and look again. You smiled at me, and I saw that spark. I never want to stop looking at your face."

He's kidding, right?

"You're sweet, but…"

"And I don't just want to look at your face," he continues. "It's not enough to just watch you, or stare at you while you're talking to me. I want to touch it. I want to kiss it. I don't want anyone else doing those things. I knew this when I invited you over for breakfast, but I hadn't thought things through. I needed to think because I know this is temporary. You're not staying here. I want to leave next year, but I know you'll be gone before me. I also know that—"

"I keep cutting you off, and I apologize for that, but I have to say this—please don't explain why you had to think things through. I overreacted back there. I think maybe the fact that you took that time to think means this isn't just…I don't know."

"It's whatever you want it to be," he tells me. "If you want something casual, I'm not going to say no. Just don't tell me that we can only be friends. I won't settle for that. I need to touch you. I want to fuck you in ways you can't even begin to comprehend."

His hand finds my knee when he says that. I want to reach out and touch it.

"So you're saying that we can't be friends unless I sleep with you?"

He freaks out a little, opening and closing his mouth a few times before he finally speaks.

"No, of course not. That wasn't an ultimatum. I just didn't want to take no for an answer because I want more than your friendship."

"Me too." But I still don't know what that is. Even the idea of a relationship seems crazy, almost funny. Like it's all a huge joke, and he's going to start laughing any second now.

"This conversation is depressing," I sigh. "People don't have to define things the second they kiss, but I want to, and that's why I keep asking you to tell me why you want this. It's not fair to you, but you're a smart man, and I'm sure this is something you thought about before you made your decision to call me today. If this is just sex, I need to know. If you want to date me, I need to know. I don't want this grey area, and if you can't deal with that, it's okay."

"You get to decide, Bella."

"Is casual sex something you'd prefer? I mean, I'll be honest with you—I'm attracted to you, but that's not something I'm interested in."

And if that's all you want, I'll probably end up giving it to you, but not yet. You're lovely, but you're not Jasper. I'd trust him with my life. Who _are_ you? I barely know you.

"I suggested something casual because… it's casual," he says. "No pressure. I know you're still going through a difficult time and have a lot to deal with."

"Yeah." I nod. This is the perfect time for Edward to put an arm around me, to hold me, and I think that maybe Mom was right—he's perfect. I sit like this, in his arms, and I talk.

"I don't like people. Sometimes I think really mean thoughts about you. I can't open up and give you things… I don't even know what that means. I'm really lonely. Even when I'm with the few friends I have left, or my ex-boyfriend… I'm lonely. He'll be holding me and we'll be together, but…" I shrug. "I'm never detached from _us _when I'm with you, and I don't want to be. You make me sit up and listen. I think maybe I want to listen for a long time. I've said more words to you this past week than I have all year, if you don't include the words I was forced to repeat. I really want to talk to you, but if I tell you everything…"

"I'm going to fall in love with you," he says.

He has no idea. If I talk to him and tell him my secrets and truths, he'll run so far away. So far. I shake my head. "No. The opposite."

"Don't be stupid. I don't know what else I can say to make you understand that I want to be with you. Who cares why? I've considered the ugliest possibilities. I've thought about you in the most unflattering ways. Even if you are as shallow, immoral, cold, and calculating as your worst critics say you are, I want to be here. You do something to me."

"I do something to you." I consider this. I like it. "You do something to me, too. I don't want to like you, but I can't help it."

"I know. I don't want to like you either," he says with a laugh.

We talk about things and kiss a few times before he starts the car. He drives fast at night, and it's a little scary. I don't tell him to slow down because I like the little bit of nausea, the heart palpitations. I like being on alert. He senses it, and drives a little faster.

"You drive fast."

"Yeah," he agrees, pulling up in front of the house. "I enjoy it when I can get away with it."

"Hmm… you like your thrills."

"I do."

"Do you have others? Anything else you're into? There's not much to do here."

"There's plenty."

"Sure there is," I say, patting him on the knee. I notice the single light that's on in the living room.

"Places aren't fun, Bella. It's what you choose to do that makes them fun."

"Make it fun for me."

It's late, and there's not much we can do sitting in his car outside my house, but I giggle at how quickly his seatbelt comes off. He's all over me, and I'm all squeals and laughter and _stop, stop, stop_. But he won't, so I deal with his kisses until I'm kissing back, and I like the innocence and how sweet he can be until he drags my hand to his lap, and then I just want to beg him to take me back to his room and rub that against me and put it in me and never let me go. I can't believe this right now. It's surreal. I'm a mess. I kiss him for the last time at least ten times before I finally shut the door and start walking towards the house. I wonder who's up, and I wonder if they saw or heard anything. I guess I'll never know, because the light goes off and the house is sitting there, quiet and dark.

Once inside, my first stop is the living room. There's a can of beer sitting on the coffee table, and it's half full and pretty cold. I turn on the television. Sports. I sit in Dad's chair. It's warm. Mom's spot on the couch is cold. He was sitting here. He probably heard us pull up. I wonder if he watched us. At least he didn't decide to hang around long enough to give me a lecture.

"Yeah, I'm back. Time to run off and avoid me," I mumble.

I lie down on the couch, my head resting on the pillow Mom clutches when she's watching something and gets all excited. I'm tired. The sounds coming from the TV are annoying, but I can't bring myself to reach out for the remote. I unbutton my jeans and try to get comfortable on the couch. It sucks that the tears come despite everything that happened today. I didn't expect them, and that makes it worse. It's hard to stay quiet, and since I'm down here and they're upstairs, I don't even try. Eventually this tires me out, but I'm too lazy to go upstairs. Later, when it's even quieter and somehow darker than it's ever been, I feel someone hovering over me. My eyes remain closed, but I know it's my father. He covers me with something, probably the throw that's always here.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Bella?"

"Thanks," I manage to say. "It was so cold."

He says something, maybe, but he's mumbling.

"Dad, were you down here earlier when I got back?" I'm not sure where that came from, but I'm glad it made its way out of my mouth.

"Shhh, go back to sleep," he whispers.

"Did you see us in the car?"

"Bella, it's late, get some sleep."

"I'm awake now," I tell him, sitting up.

"I'm going back to bed."

"I didn't do it to piss you off. I don't do things to upset you."

"No one's upset." He sounds tired and bored. I feel like he's brushing me off.

"Don't lie to me. You hate me. You think I'm a whore."

It's so easy to get the words out when I can't see his face. If he doesn't answer, if he disappears, I'll pretend I never said them.

"Don't you ever say that again," he barks. I'm startled by the change in his voice.

"Why did you tell me to come here?"

"Bella…"

"You hate—"

"I don't want to hear that again. I'm not ready to talk about this right now. I'm going to bed."

"Listen, that's your problem," I tell him. "I need to talk about this."

I get up and walk over to where he's standing. I can actually see him now, but I talk anyway.

"Dad, I'm here. My money is running out, and I need to make some decisions soon. Am I staying? What are my options if I stay? Am I going back to school? You know I've been offered a book deal, but I won't even ask Peter for details without speaking to you first. I know you don't want me to do it, but if you don't talk to me, and choose to ignore me forever, what's the difference? I might as well go for it and take care of myself."

"Stop worrying about money, Bella."

"Money is important."

"You were dating that boy for a long time, and I thought you'd be getting married soon," he tells me. "I saved up for that. I saved up for a lot of things. You need money? You ask me. It's ultimately your choice, but now's not the time to bring attention to yourself again. I'm proud of you for being strong, but that doesn't make things better. I wanted more for you. Smartest person I know. Smartest person to graduate from Forks High School. To watch this happen… it broke my heart. Nothing's gonna change that. You broke my heart."

Why am I crying? If anything, I should be laughing at this man who thinks I would have let him spend a dime on my wedding. Like the Hales would approve of the type of wedding my family could afford. But I can't laugh, no matter how ridiculous he is. I wish I could.

"You didn't use your brains, Bella. You didn't think. If this had happened to anyone else, you'd be laughing too. I want you to be your very best. I want you to think long and hard about the choices you make. I don't know if you loved him, or what was going on in your head, but it was a bad decision. You're better than that. Look at you. You were a sweet girl. I was proud of you. At your graduation two years ago, I was the proudest man on earth. I talked about you and your accomplishments every chance I got. What did you go and do? I would've knocked some sense into you if I had any idea what you were up to."

"I fucked up," I shout. "I'm sorry. I fucked up. God, get over it. You're just embarrassed. I can go back to school if I want to, I can get a job and do things with my life that you could never even dream of, because you're so average. It kills you that you can't brag anymore, that you can't live vicariously through me. I thought you were about to say I'm better than that, that I shouldn't be having affairs with married men, that I'm worth more, but you can't even do that."

"No, I can't," he says, "because you've turned into someone I don't know. Every time I turned on the TV, I saw a stranger. I don't know what you're worth anymore. You have no respect for yourself. The second you're back in town you're already in some man's car, doing exactly what got you in this situation in the first place."

"Oh my God. Edward and I are seeing each other. He likes me."

"Cullen's a lot dumber than I thought."

"You don't think I deserve him. Of course not."

"Just don't mess up that kid's life."

"Say it," I sneer. "Tell me to my face that you think I'm a whore."

He sighs and shakes his head. He's so indifferent. And cold. I guess I know where I got those traits from. I hate crying like this in front of him. I probably look so weak. So stupid. My face is wet and sticky, and my head hurts so much. I take another step towards him. I'm shaking. Where's Mom? I can't believe she's still upstairs.

"Come on, Dad. Tell me," I repeat. "Say it. Call me names. Call me a whore to my face."

I really want to push him away when he pulls me into his arms. I want to kick him. I want to scream, shout, tell him just how much I despise him. I'm not sure why I don't do these things. Every time he says 'stop crying, sweetie' or 'it's okay, Bella' I feel sick. So sick. I want to punch him in the stomach. But I don't move. I cry in his arms and let him comfort me. When the tears finally stop, I pull away. I turn around and start walking up the stairs.

XxXxX

I wake up because my phone won't stop ringing. I look for it and look for it. It's in my pocket. I'm still in my jeans.

"Hello?"

"Hey, did I wake you?" His voice is familiar now. It almost feels normal to be receiving a call from him first thing in the morning.

"Yeah, um, but it's okay. What's up?"

"I thought you'd be up, getting ready to go for a run. Go back to sleep."

"No, no. Talk. Hi."

"I'm done with these kids early today," he tells me. "Wanna grab some breakfast? Lunch, if you want to go back to sleep?"

"Come over. I'll make you breakfast."

"Are you sure?"

"I don't feel like leaving the house this morning. Come."

I shower after he finally hangs up. He made me promise that I'm all right and nothing is wrong. He calls to tell me he's outside, and I run down the stairs to open the door. My hair is still wet, and I have no idea where my mother is, but I don't care. I find him standing outside our front door, looking nervous as hell. When he sees me he smiles and kisses me. He puts something in my hand. It's yellow. It's brighter than the sun.

**I really want to thank littlecat358 and writingbabe for recommending this story to their readers. You guys are awesome.**

**And thank you to everyone who is reading, reviewing, talking about it, etc. **

**Share your thoughts and make me happy. Your reviews are better than bright, yellow things.**

**mwah**


	15. Chapter 15

**Thanks to Nina and Tracy.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

"Let me see," I insist, taking his hand into mine.

"It hurts."

"Yeah, I bet. Be a little more careful next time." I kiss the tip of his index finger.

"I was distracted."

"I'll never speak again while you're… doing important things." I kiss it again.

"You're allowed to speak. Just don't make a habit of it."

"Such a big baby," I say, wrapping my legs around his. The countertop is slippery, and my butt almost slides off. He doesn't even notice, because he's too busy frowning and staring at the finger that just got caught in the drawer.

I take his hand again and bring the injured finger to my mouth. Let's see how much it hurts. How much pain he's really in. I press it against my lips and I open my mouth. I lick the tip once, and look up. His eyes are wide, his lips are parted like mine. I lick again and his eyes close. I lick and lick in circles. I very softly suck. He makes a noise. It hurts a little. I let go of his finger and find his mouth.

We kiss a lot. We kiss when he stops by in the morning to eat with me. Sometimes I feed him, sometimes he brings food, but we always kiss. We kiss a lot in his car. We don't really kiss enough, because he does have to study and I don't want him wasting precious minutes or hours kissing me when he could be using them to improve his score. He wants things, and I love hearing about what he wants. He names schools and I nod. I encourage. I look at his grades from undergrad and what he's been scoring on practice tests, and I know he has a shot. He's the smartest. He's the prettiest.

"You're the prettiest," I tell him.

He laughs and shakes his head.

"What? You don't like that? You're just… look at your hair! It's all so crazy. Did you sleep on it funny? Electric shock? So pretty. And crazy."

"You're the crazy one," he says.

I rub my nose against his shoulder. This is me saying 'no'. I sniff and sniff and breathe him in. He smells like laundry and soap. I'll like it better when he smells like a boy who's been out doing things on a summer day. I close my eyes and I want to nap right here. On the kitchen counter, Edward holding me, his hands always somewhere under my shirt.

"That's your phone."

"Oh, ignore it."

"You sure?" he asks. "You don't want to talk to… _Jasper_?"

My eyes open, but I don't move. I'm also not as comfortable and soft against him. And his hand stops for a few beats before it begins to move again, up and down my back.

"Um, no. Just let it keep ringing. He'll leave a message."

"Cute picture."

"Stop staring at my phone."

"When was it taken?" Edward asks. "And what are you wearing?"

"The week after graduation. Long time ago. I was wearing… hmmm, things you wear when you visit the Hales and hang out on their boat."

"You look funny."

"Shut up."

"He's wearing pink pants." I feel him chuckling against me.

"Jealous that he can pull off pink pants? I'd like to see you try. With your silly hair and silly face."

"Bella," Edward starts, "he looks like a tool."

"No…" Yes, but only sometimes. "That's my best friend you're saying mean things about."

"Yeah, and it's also your former boyfriend, and I get to say mean things about him."

"Oh?"

Edward nods, then gets distracted by something on my skin. I hope he moves his mouth a little to the south, down my chest, but the things I want him to put his lips around are things that shouldn't be out on display in his mother's kitchen on a Sunday afternoon.

"That's not fair. He's a good guy."

"Is he?" He grabs the front of my shirt and pulls it down until there's new skin for him to lick.

"Stop for a second," I say, and his hands are immediately on the counter and he's standing straighter, looking into my eyes. "You know Jasper and I are still friends, right?"

"I guess I do now."

"Is that a problem?"

"No," Edward says, "but I'm curious."

"About?"

"How you managed to forgive him."

"Oh. Right. Edward, if you have questions about anything, I need you to ask me. Please don't assume things, or… None of this was his fault. He was dating Alice Brandon at the time, and I chose to confide in her."

"But he introduced her to you."

"I needed a friend," I begin to explain. "When everything started, I needed someone to talk to. Someone local. I didn't have many good friends in D.C., and I missed Jasper. He was dating Alice at the time, and she was very sweet. You meet Alice, and she's all smiles and hugs. I trusted her immediately. She was my new best friend. It took a while for me to tell her the things I told Jasper, but I felt so relieved when I did. It felt good talking to someone, another woman. I loved Alice. She asked me to be a bridesmaid in her wedding, because there was no doubt at the time that Jasper was going to propose. He was young, but he was crazy about her. When everything came out, it was bad. He left her, and she didn't take it well. I don't know what she had expected…"

"He broke up with her?" Edward asks.

"Yeah, immediately."

"He must not have trusted her. If he loved her as much as you're telling me he did, he would have given her the benefit of the doubt, he—"

"The person who ruined his best friend's life? Jasper and I were together for years. He's a loyal friend."

"You obviously meant more to him than his girlfriend did."

"We're very close," I say, trying to figure out what Edward is thinking by staring at the way his jaw is set and the position of his eyebrows.

"Have you considered getting back together with him?"

"No."

"Does he want to get back together?"

"We're friends. It's never going to be like that again," I tell him. "I know why he's calling. We just received invitations to a wedding I promised I'd attend with him. I don't know if I want to go anymore. I'll call him back when I figure it out."

"Why don't you want to go anymore?"

What does Edward need to know about Jasper? Do I have to tell him about Jasper's visit? Does he even want to know that we had sex a little over a week ago? It has nothing to do with him, and yet I feel compelled to say things and make promises.

"I wouldn't be able to fulfill certain expectations. I'm not interested in going as his date."

"You're expected to do things?" Edward asks.

"No, of course not. This is awkward."

"Make it less awkward."

"Impossible," I say. Edward smiles. "Okay. Jasper and I have been hooking up. I was staying at his apartment in New York while he was abroad, and it started when he returned, right before I moved back here."

"Okay."

"I asked him to fly out to see me, and he was here for a week. He left last Friday. We decided to go LA for the wedding, but everything is different now, because you're here, and I have no desire to go with him."

"I don't see why you can't go to the wedding and not sleep with your friend."

"I can, but I don't want to go to the wedding," I try to calmly explain.

"Is this a secret? Are you keeping this a secret from him?"

"No, he knows about you."

"He knows about me, but still thinks you guys are hooking up at a wedding?" Edward asks. He sounds a little impatient. Nervous or agitated. I'm not sure.

"No! We haven't discussed it. He knows I liked you, and I've told him about last summer, but I haven't spoken to him recently. Listen, I just don't feel like going to the wedding. It has nothing to do with you."

"You're contradicting yourself."

"Nobody wants to be the single, pathetic girl at a wedding, living with her parents, with no job and no life. I haven't seen these people in a long, long time. I'd have to face them, and I know what they're all thinking. They're thinking what everyone else thinks, but they're also judging me in a thousand different ways, because they knew me before I became the girl who sucked off the President."

I'm shaking by the end of my mini-rant. My mini-speech. Whatever that was. I said ugly words that Edward doesn't want to hear, because he's spending time with that girl, and I'm sure he doesn't want to be reminded of who she is. He doesn't want to think about it. I can't even look at his face.

"You're still pretty angry," he says.

"No shit."

"If these people are your friends—"

"_Were_ my friends."

"Did they stop speaking to you?" he asks.

"No, I stopped speaking to them, and a few of them reached out to me, and some of them asked Jasper for updates, sent messages, but… I didn't want to hear from anyone. They used to be jealous of me. I was smarter, prettier. They wanted my boyfriend. Or they really wanted me. Or…"

"Hey, don't cry."

"I'm not crying."

Edward's fingers touch my face, and then he shows me his thumb. It's wet. Barely. But wet.

"Have more faith in people," he says.

"I don't know why you put up with me."

"What did I just tell you?"

"My own parents won't look at me. I haven't heard their voices in days."

"What are you talking about?"

I shrug. "Nothing."

"Are you serious?" he asks.

I nod. "My father told me not to ruin your life. He thinks you're stupid."

"He really said those things?"

"Yeah, the other night."

"Bella…"

"What?"

"I don't know," he tells me. "I don't know what to say."

"I think about it a lot. Whether or not you're actually stupid—stupid when it comes to me. I think about what you see in me. I'm interesting? You're a little obsessed? You just really want to sleep with me? It's on my mind all the time, almost every second we spend together, but I don't bring it up because why would I? I don't want to bring your attention to it. Then you'll wonder.

"I remember there was this guy we knew in college. He was crazy about his girlfriend. The other guys, his friends, would joke about how pussy-whipped he was. All it took was one person saying those words to his face, and he snapped. I guess he started to think about his behavior, about how nice he was, and how he let her take charge, tell him what to do. He started acting like an asshole. They whole dynamic of their relationship changed, and they broke up. If no one had said a word… he probably wouldn't have realized it. He seemed happy, you know?"

"I find it hard to believe that you don't know what I see in you."

"This isn't false modesty," I tell him. "I'm attractive. I'm intelligent. I used to be fun, and I guess I still can be. But right now, I'm not a pleasant person to be around. I hate hearing myself say that, but it's true. I'm always crying, and I'm always angry. Most of my thoughts are negative. I don't exactly bring much—"

"You need to relax. It freaks me out when you cry, and I'll admit that the first time you had a meltdown I wanted to get the fuck out the room and not have to deal with it. I still hate it when you get like this, but I don't think about walking away. I can tolerate it, and I can hope it gets better." He pauses and his mouth is against my forehead for a second, and his arms are around me.

His words aren't enough. If anything, when I go home tonight I'll be replaying them in my head, making myself sick because he _tolerates_ me—even if that's not true and I'm twisting his words around. I need more words, because I used a lot of my own, and I know he can do better than that. Kisses and hugs and brutal honesty can only take you so far.

"You only see the bad things," Edward continues. "You choose the worst moments to focus on. Most of the time, you're smiling. I think you like me. I already told you how I feel—stop questioning it. This should be the best part of your day, not something you torture yourself over."

"There's just something I want to know. It's the only thing that matters. Are you happier now? Am I making your life better, or am I just adding stress or drama?"

"Much better. It's never been this good. I promise."

I don't believe him, but I like his lies and his false promises. I like them so much that I will repeat them over and over again in my head until they become true for me. Until they're my reality.

I kiss him. I kiss him like people kiss in movies sometimes. Wild. Crazy. I kiss him like I want to eat him. And Edward wants to devour me, because his kisses beat mine. They're wilder. Crazier. His teeth bite. His hands hurt. His nails dig deep. My legs hold him again. He's so hard, and he pushes it against me as he's pulling the front of my shirt down again. I haven't felt his mouth like this in a year. It's my favorite. He sucks like he absolutely has to suck. Harder and more and more, and I sound like I'm sobbing. A child begging for something, my knees are shaking, feeling things I usually don't feel unless someone is deep, deep inside me. When he lets go, I think he's going to take me to his room and take off my pants and shirt and everything there is to take off, but instead he just stares at me and moves his eyes between my legs. He kisses me there. A few times. My knees shake and shake. If I take off my pants and let him kiss my skin, I'll feel the cold marble of the countertop against my ass, my thighs. I don't care. I'll let him fuck me in the kitchen. I don't care.

So when he kisses my mouth again, I kiss back, and I let my fingers play with his buttons, and I kiss his smile. I kiss his grin.

"I really want you," I tell him. "No one else. I really, really want you."

I start touching him. I can't help but smile. I love touching him. So hard. Big. I don't care, I can be happy about this. I like big. There's nothing wrong with loving the fact that the man you're about to have sex with is well-endowed. It just makes everything better. I'm like an animal, rubbing him over his jeans. I love the friction. The heat in my palm. He's panting and excited. I'm excited. I want to put it in my mouth right before he comes. I should get off the counter. I pop open a button on his jeans.

"Let me down." 

"Okay."

He's so tall. I'm still rubbing. I open and close my mouth, and I bite his shirt right over his chest. My tongue makes it wet. I'm teasing him with my hand. I take it away and move it under his shirt to see what he'll do. I want him to bring it back over. I want him to make me touch him. When he stops kissing me and his hand is over mine, I know this is going to be the best. He gets me. He wants what I want.

"Edward! Anyone home?"

His hands are off me and they're pulling down his t-shirt to cover the unbuttoned button. My hands immediately go to my chest, making sure everything is covered, tucked in, perfect. The look on his face is sheer horror. The look on mine? I have no idea. The look on the face of the older woman wearing a baseball cap and tacky jogging suit? Surprise… and then almost immediately, amusement. I wonder if she recognizes me.

"Edward. You brought over a friend," she says.

"Mom, this is Bella."

I smile. Before I can say anything, a door opens. It's loud, and I can't believe we didn't hear it open a few seconds ago. A tiny girl with Emmett's dark hair and Edward's face walks in carrying two bags.

"Bree, this is Edward's friend, Bella," her mother informs her. The way she says my name… I don't like it. I don't think Edward notices, because men don't usually notice those slight changes in someone's voice. The changes that make the friendliest words sound deadly.

"Hello." Her face is expressionless.

"Hi. Nice to meet you both."

Mrs. Cullen politely smiles and takes the bags from her daughter. "I sent your father to pick up some pizza for dinner. I'll have to let him know that we have a guest."

"No, that won't be necessary. I was just leaving."

"Bella—"

"Alright, it was nice meeting you."

Not sure what to do, I grab my bag from where it's been sitting on the kitchen table and start walking towards the door. What kind of rude asshole doesn't insist on having me join them for dinner? Or, I don't know, say something other than the equivalent of 'fuck off'?

"I'll see you later," Edward says. I turn to say something, but I realize he wasn't talking to me.

"Where are you off to?"

"Bella doesn't like pizza. We'll go grab something else. Bree, wanna join us?"

He's doing this strange thing, acting all casual. Lying about my feelings towards pizza, like that's the only reason why I'm leaving and he's coming with me. It's strange, but I like him, and I'm going to trust him. Have some faith, right?

Bree looks a little torn. Her eyes move from Edward to her mother, and I think she quickly glances my way, too. "I'm tired."

"Alright…"

"Next time, for sure," she adds quickly.

This makes me smile. I bite my lip to stop my smile from growing bigger when Edward walks over to her and gives her a hug. "Missed you, kid."

She's blushing and looking away, hiding her face from the stranger in the room.

"I'll see you guys later."

I reach out to open the door, but I'm really slow, because he's already there, and his hand is on my shoulder, and his other hand is holding the door open for me. Before it closes shut, his arm is around me, and he leans in to kiss me. Just on the top of my head. Affectionate. Sweet. If they were watching, they saw. If they're human, they were watching. Good.

XxXxX

"Jasper's calling again," I tell Edward an hour later as we're walking into an Italian restaurant in Port Angeles.

"When's the wedding?"

"In August."

"Talk to him," Edward says. "Tell him you're going to the wedding."

"I'm not…"

"You're going to the wedding with your boyfriend."

"Oh?" I raise an eyebrow. Or I think I do. I never check in the mirror to make sure it's working.

Our conversation is paused when the host greets us and walks us over to an empty table in the back.

"I'm assuming you're allowed to bring a guest," Edward says. "A plus-one."

"Yes, but I told you, I don't want to go."

"Then call him and tell him you're not going." He smiles when I stare at the phone in my hand. "You won't, because you're still thinking about it. Be honest with me, do you want to go or not?"

"I did. I want to see some of these people. It would be cool seeing Jasper again, too. And I just want to get out of Forks for a couple of days…"

There's nothing interesting on the menu. I want a salad. Salad and dessert. A glass of wine. I place my phone on the table. I'm startled when he grabs my hand.

"Bella."

"Yes?"

"Are you going to ignore what I said?" Edward asks.

I squeeze his hand. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I don't like putting myself out there like that. Do you want to go to the wedding with me or not? If this is about Jasper, or if I'm not good enough, you need to tell me now."

"What?"

"And if you're 'single', like you mentioned earlier, maybe I should be acting more like a single guy."

I let go of his hand. "I can't tell you what to do."

"Answer me," he says.

"I told you, I don't know whether or not I want to go."

"We're not talking about that right now."

"What are we talking about?"

"Don't play games. I asked you a very straightforward question."

"Which one? Whether or not you're good enough? That's a stupid question—you know you are."

"I'm not Jasper."

"You need to stop acting like a jealous prick every time Jasper's name is mentioned."

He says something I can't quite hear. I look at him, challenging him to say it out loud, but his glare startles me. Surprises me. He's angrier than he's ever been.

"Edward, I need time to wrap my head around this idea. I don't just make decisions like that."

"You know what? Just forget about it," he says. "I offer to help, but you're too good to accept my help and be seen with me. That's pretty funny, Bella. Do you see the humor in this situation?"

"Are you throwing your _kindness_ back in my face? I don't need your help. Having you by my side isn't going to restore my reputation. You're not going to… I don't know, legitimize me in any way in the eyes of… I don't even know what I'm saying."

"How about you start by stopping for a second, gathering your thoughts, and then expressing them in a coherent manner, like an adult? Try taking it slow."

"How about you use your big word of the day, 'coherent', on the dozen or so idiots you spend your mornings trying to impress and not someone who graduated from a real school?"

"What real school?" he sneers. "I'm pretty sure you were one of those idiots yourself a few years ago."

"Oh, I was talking about your educational background, sweetie. Confused, are we?"

"Your fancy liberal arts college didn't teach you the one thing you needed to learn. Don't get caught. What a waste of time and money."

"You expect me to want to be your girlfriend, when you tell me to be grateful for your kindness, and then bring up the one thing no one who loves me would ever bring up. I left your kitchen with you, I put my faith in you, thinking you weren't running away. You know why I got caught last time? Because I trusted people. I trusted him and fell in love, and then I trusted Alice. How am I supposed to trust you?"

"You're not ready to trust me," he says. "We're both wasting our time."

"Really?"

"I tried."

We order things when the waiter stops by our table. I play with a piece of bread, determined not to get upset. I sit so straight. I force myself to look him in the eye the few times I catch him staring.

"This is why I needed time to think," I finally say. "There's a lot that we would have had to talk about. I didn't want you changing your mind in LA, at my friend's wedding. I didn't want to lose you the day before a big interview, when I finally decide to put myself back in the public eye. I'm not asking if you want to be my boyfriend. You do. You know me, and you know what I'm capable of, and you want to stick around. I'm asking if you want to be Isabella Swan's boyfriend. You'll have to introduce me to your classmates someday, to your colleagues at work. Do you really want to introduce the girl who wrote dirty texts about loving the carpet burns on her knees?"

I didn't think so.

I watch as he pushes back his chair and stands up before walking away. My chest hurts, and I'm worried about the next breath I'll have to take, but I'm not surprised. I was talking to a wall. He wasn't looking at me, and I thought he wasn't listening to a word I said until I was finally done. Then, just briefly, his eyes met mine, and the chair was pushed back. At some point during this conversation, Edward checked out, but I kept talking. I was wasting my time. Eventually, everyone runs away.

**Or not. I'll try to update in a couple of days. Thank you for reading, reviewing, talking about this story. Stop by and say hi, or yell at Edward or Bella. Or both.**

**mwah**


	16. Chapter 16

**Writeontime makes me think, and I don't like it, but I appreciate her hard work. Ciaobella27 is invaluable as a prereader. I wish I'd gone with her suggestion for a title when I first started this story.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

Googling "Port Angeles taxi" yields very few relevant results. I stare at the first and only number that comes up, thinking about my options. Any second now, the waiter will be back with our meals, all wrapped up and ready to go. He recognized me when I told him something came up and we had to leave. He looked back twice on his way to the kitchen. I wish I could hide behind my hair, like I did back in high school and the first few weeks of college. The first time I wanted to stop hiding was when Jasper Hale sat next to me during an early morning lecture. I pushed my hair out of my face and smiled. My heart was beating so fast, kind of like it's beating now, but that was the best kind of fast, and this is the worst.

I don't want to be standing outside this restaurant in five minutes with nowhere to go, but I think at this point, it's pretty inevitable. I can call this number and ask if they'll take me to Forks, or I can call my parents and ask them to pick me up. Either way, there will be some time spent outside this restaurant waiting for a stranger to pick me up. A few minutes, an hour, something in between… it really doesn't matter. I've been waiting for months. I'm fine now, because I have to be until I'm alone. And then it will come—soul crushing disappointment, and my smart inner voice telling the silly one, "I told you so."

"Here you go ma'am. Anything else I can do for you?"

"Oh. Um, just the check, please."

He has it ready, and he hands it over to me with the brightest smile.

I give him my most polite smile back as I remove my credit card from my wallet and place it inside the receipt holder. He's back a minute later, and continues to hover over the table while I sign the receipt and put away my wallet.

"Miss Swan…" he starts.

"Yes?"

"Do you think… would you mind signing your autograph for me?"

His face is red and his eyes are focused on something behind me. I can tell he feels bad, that he possibly already regrets asking. Well, he shouldn't have asked.

"No."

He says things that don't matter as I walk out.

I walk out and walk straight into Edward.

"Where are you going?"

My shoulder moves and tells him it's none of his business, I don't know, why does he care, it's not important, but he doesn't let me walk past him. I thought I was fast, but he's faster, and he's stronger, too.

"You don't want to cause a scene here, do you?" he asks.

"No, which is why I smiled, paid the bill, and left."

"Come on."

"What?"

"I was coming back," he says. His hands in his hair and huge, wild eyes tell me he's upset. "I never thought you'd assume I left. I needed a minute."

"It was closer to ten, maybe even fifteen minutes."

He apologizes, placing his hands on my shoulders and then moving them down my arms. I let them move like that because it doesn't matter. I feel nothing.

"It's fine," I tell him before he has the chance to start a new round of apologies. "Do you mind dropping me off at my parents' house?"

"You don't want to eat something?"

I show him the bag in my hand.

"Do you want to eat that before we leave?" he asks.

"No."

"Fine, but I owe you dinner," he mumbles. I follow him to his car and once I'm inside, that thing I've been waiting for finally arrives. Anger is gone. I close my eyes, and I see myself sobbing. I hear the pathetic whimpers. This is going to be me soon. Hopefully not until I'm in my room, door locked, with my face in my pillow.

"Are you cold?"

"No."

"You're hugging yourself like you're cold," he says.

"I'm just sad."

He takes the deepest breath. In, out.

"You said all these things—"

"I apologized," he starts, but I cut him off.

"No, not in there. I'm talking about all the things you said that made me want to be with you. That you liked me, that you'd do whatever it takes… I'm sad that you didn't mean them."

"You can't do this, Bella."

"What?"

"Go from… whatever that was at the restaurant, to this. You can't be two different people."

"I'm not," I insist. "I'm allowed to get angry. I was angry in there."

"I'm not talking about anger."

"You do the same thing."

He shakes his head, saying nothing. I don't think he wants to have a conversation. He apologized and he's driving me back, but that's only because he has good manners. I sit back and try to not hate myself for my pathetic declaration of sadness.

"I meant what I said," he tells me, "but I don't know what to do now to make you happy."

"Make this last hour disappear."

"Would rewinding time help?"

"I'd be less sad, yeah."

"How far back would you like to go?" he asks.

"Right around the time Jasper called."

"That's it? Not last year? Not before that?"

I know what he's asking. I can't think about changing history right now.

"No."

"So, what would you change?" Edward wants to know.

"Nothing. I don't know."

"You can't take back honesty."

"No."

"I'd go back to five minutes before my mother walked in on us," he tells me.

"Yeah?"

"We could've been in my room."

"Hmm, and I wouldn't have said any of the things I said because my mouth would've been too busy."

He covers his face with his hand, laughing into it, no longer composed and in control.

"Don't do that. You can't tease me with something I've been thinking about every day for an entire year."

"What? A blowjob?"

He's laughing again. These little boy moments are the cutest. He's being unfair. I like them too much.

"Is that all you want?" I ask. "Because you and I both know that's like shaking hands for me. A casual 'hello'. Just pull over right there. Consider it a 'thank you' for the time you put into our 'relationship' over this past week."

"You probably hate doing it."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know… don't you associate it with everything that's happened?"

"I certainly don't want to describe the act again in front of really disgusting old men who probably wanted to touch themselves or ask me to demonstrate, but… stop laughing! It was awful!"

"You know they did," Edward says.

"Oh man, you should've seen their faces when they played the tapes. There were—"

"I was so curious about that whole thing."

"The tapes?" I ask.

"Yeah, but go on, sorry."

"As unpleasant as the whole thing was, there were moments when I'd stop and observe the people around me, and I'd have to stop myself from giggling or cracking a joke while I was being questioned. The looks on their faces—you could tell some people were just extremely curious, like, given the chance, they'd invite me over for dinner and get me drunk enough to spill more details."

My heart needs to stop pounding in that good way. Saying these things to the man I want to be with, sleep with, shouldn't feel this exciting, but the way he's listening to me, always grateful for the little bit I give him, lips slightly parted, memorizing each word… I can't help but continue.

"I remember being questioned about one particular encounter, and they made me go through it in excruciating detail, so I had to say that I had an orgasm, and this one woman looked so shocked, so surprised. She kept shaking her head 'no', like how is that possible? That's unheard of! Who comes from that? And I really wanted to laugh and pat her on the back and tell her that it's okay, she shouldn't kill herself because no one has made her feel that way. I'm such an asshole."

"You're not."

"I bet you're wondering what I'm talking about."

"I've read the report," Edward says. "I think I have an idea of what you're talking about."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He nods. So serious. I bet he wants to try.

"It's very long, did you just read the good parts?"

He chuckles. "No, all of it."

"Liar."

"You're the liar. You know there were no good parts," he says.

When I don't answer, he reaches out and grabs my hand.

"It's pretty cool that you're able to laugh about it now."

"Well, you make it easy," I tell him. "I don't feel like you're laughing at me, or judging me."

"I'm not."

"And it's better than talking about the bad parts."

He nods.

"I've shown you too much sad Bella," I continue with a tiny smile.

"You can be sad."

I've been sadder. I've been the saddest. Abandoned. Ignored. Forgotten. Once you're there, at that place, and those closest to you are nowhere to be found, you no longer need confirmation. They don't care, or they don't care enough, or they've never cared about anything, so why start now? I'm having trouble reconciling their indifference with Edward's compassion. I want to come up with excuses, explain away his behavior, but his hand is too warm. I don't want to question it tonight.

"I'm sad all the time, but you're not my therapist."

"I'm your friend."

He squeezes my hand and I squeeze back, and then I bring our hands to my mouth, and kiss our fingers. His are bigger, so I mostly get his, and this is good, because it's what I was trying for. He doesn't stop me. He's not holding my hand because he's my friend. Despite when was said inside the restaurant, he's willing to waste more time, and so am I. I'm willing to waste days and weeks and maybe even months if he lets me touch him with my mouth like this. I rub my lips over his hand, I make his fingers touch my face. If I want these touches to last, he needs to know that I've been trying, too. Hopefully that will make him start trying again.

"I want to say things that will make the mean ones I said back there not count," I tell him.

"Is that how it works?"

"Yes."

When he smiles I know I've won this round, and I can speak, and he'll listen. It's the smile that tells me he'd listen forever if I spoke forever. It's the one I saw last year when I suggested that we leave the party. I do something to him. He's acknowledged this, and accepts it, so I don't feel bad about taking advantage of this fact when I bring his hand to my lap, and run it up and down my thigh.

"You're the most intelligent person I've dated," I confess. "You don't have to prove it every second, and that's the best. I love talking to you, not only because your voice makes me shiver when it goes very low, or when it surprises me after too much silence, but because I appreciate every word. I fantasize about hiding in the back of your classroom, listening to your words, watching you teach. I fantasize about the smile on your face when you tell me you aced the GREs, and how we celebrate. I reward you a thousand times, and you love it. That's the kind of stuff I think about the most, right before I go to bed, or in the bath… You're so good. I can't wait."

I move his hand again, up, up, and why am I not wearing a skirt, or a dress? I want to see his fingers digging into my thigh, skin against skin.

"You're wonderful," I continue, "and I can tell you a secret."

"Yeah?"

I nod. "Just keep your eyes on the road, okay? Once or twice—not more than that—I've imagined staying here with you, for a long time, just in case you decide to stay and continue to teach. It wouldn't be so bad, because your lashes are long and I love lying on the floor in your room. I love the things I see when I lie like that and close my eyes. See? I can be nice…"

"I'd never make you stay," he tells me. "You hate it here."

"But you agree that I'm nice?"

"Sometimes."

"I want to be the nicest for you. I'll fail, and I'll make nasty comments about your hometown and many, many other things, but…"

He stops me. "And I'll want to punch you in the face."

"Ouch." I frown.

"Don't make that face."

My frown deepens. He laughs and squeezes my thigh, making me squeal.

"We're good?" he asks.

"I said nice things, but you didn't."

"I can do nice things."

"No, your family's back," I remind him.

"So?"

"I'm not going back there, Edward."

"Back entrance."

"Like last summer."

"Like last summer," he repeats.

"Is sex going to solve all of our problems?"

"We don't have problems. Listen, Bella, we thought defining things and making decisions early on was a good idea, but we don't even know what this is yet. I think it can be something really big, but—"

"If you shut up right now, I'll probably still sleep with you. If you continue, I'll be the one throwing punches tonight."

"I was only trying to say that we should relax, and not overthink things," he tells me.

He's right. It's been a week. This is supposed to be the best part. The beginning, the newness. I can't control everything he does. If he wants to walk away two weeks from now, or next April, he's going to do that, no matter what he promises, or what we decide. So I hold his hand and watch him as we drive back to Forks. And when we're not holding hands, he's touching me a lot, but not enough. So when I notice that we're driving to his house, and not mine, I say nothing. I'm quiet and trying to hide a big smile until he makes too much noise, slamming the car door and speaking in the loudest voice. He wants to let them know he's here, and he's not using the front door, and he's with someone, and he's not to be disturbed. It makes me giggle, so it's good. If it can make me giggle, I'll never complain.

I switch on the light in his room, and he switches it off. On. Off. On. Off. We play like that until I change my mind. Off is the best. I like the dark when I'm with him. I like the wall I'm pushed up against, the hand that's quick with buttons and zippers, the fingers that don't wait, so impatient, so long, so wet because of me. I squirm and sigh. Some clothes come off. I suppress moans. I don't always succeed. I know that if I look, the bite marks on his neck and shoulders are deep and fresh, and his skin is wet.

"Bella," he says, and I'm on his bed. "Bella, Isabella, Isa…bella."

"Which one?"

"Both."

I like that. More clothes come off. I find him and hold him.

"Let me…" touch you, taste and feel you, lick and lick and be so good.

"Later."

Lights off was a bad idea, because I swear I've never wanted anything as much as I want to see his jaw between my legs tonight. It's there. And I can see. But I can't _see_. Too dark. If I had a camera, I'd do what stupid girls do. If I had the talent, I'd paint it later, because it must be so beautiful. Messiest hair and pinkest tongue and prettiest face. My fingers pulling, then playing, then pulling again, because I want him closer, closer and I can't stop moving and grinding.

"Your legs are strong. Let me move," he says when I try to keep him there even after I'm done. Why am I done? He can do that again. He should do it again. Right now. But when he licks up and down, I push his face away. Not yet.

He kisses a lot. He doesn't care that I'm impatient, that I want him on me, heavy and warm, until it's hard to breathe under him. He kisses my stomach, he kisses my hips, he goes back to where he was and kisses and kisses again.

"Kiss my mouth," I tell him. This way, he'll be up here, and his chest will be against my chest, and his body will be between my legs, and he'll be perfect and ready.

He laughs, because he knows. Kisses are hot and wet and deep. He's so, so ready for this. My hips, my ass are off the bed, because I want and want. I want it against me, rubbing all over. It's so good. I love, love, love his cock. I tell him that, choosing new words to sound less crude, and he moves again, and this time I say it. I repeat it while I wait for him to put on a condom, between more bites and kisses.

He pushes in. Quick, fast. I wince. His palm is over my mouth. I try to bite. My tongue touches his skin, and he laughs and fucks. His lips are on my neck. They're on my throat. It's so intense when they're on my mouth. Crazy intense. Scary intense. I need to breathe, so it's forehead against forehead. His breath and mine. More and more, and he's on his back. Up and down, and again and again. Fast, fast, faster until I swallow my scream and _oh_, _oh, oh_ I can't anymore. My _thighs_. I'm a tired mess in his arms, my face in his chest, so lazy now. He still feels so good. His hands grip my hips, move to my ass. I kiss him and smile; he doesn't stop. I close my eyes and let him move how he likes, waiting for the strength to move with him again. I love that he's not done.

**I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter. Thanks so much for reading, and if you liked it, please let me know. In the spirit of the holiday season, I'll be sending a little something your way. **

**xo**


	17. Chapter 17

**Nina and Tracy rock. **

**I don't own Twilight.**

Texts from Jasper wake me up. It's late in New York, and he's back at the apartment, alone, and a little drunk. He wants a pretty voice to tell him dirty things. He wants what I give him, and he's willing to share his own words with me. We've done this a few times since I retuned to Forks, and if I didn't have my favorite boy holding me right now, I don't know what I'd be telling Jasper. I'd be flirting back, I think. Maybe I'd say just enough, and come up with excuses once he's satisfied and happy, his head on the most comfortable pillows, tissues scattered over ivory sheets. Or I'd turn him down, out of some sense of loyalty, wondering if Edward would do the same. And he would.

It's easy to turn Jasper down tonight.

_With someone. Can't play._

_Jsut tonight?_

_I hope not._

I stare at my screen, waiting for his reply, but my phone is snatched from my hand. He's not happy, and my phone is in the air. It lands by our feet.

"Hey!"

Jealous rarely manifests itself in an attractive way. I'm not a fan. I want to push Edward off when he's suddenly kissing and thrusting, touching me with angry hands, but then his lips touch my earlobe, and he's saying my name, so softly, kissing again and again, tickling. I don't like this feeling of melting under someone's touch. I want touches to electrify; I want them to elicit sounds that surprise me and bring me back down to earth until I'm touched again. This should be unwelcome, the melting and the trouble breathing, but I've never wanted to welcome anything more. I'm soft and small and weak right now. I wrap my arms around him to bring him closer. What I love most about this man is how sweet and weak and melty he likes to get. Just a second ago he was fucking me. Hard. Fast. So close. Trying to prove some stupid point. Now it's like a dream. Arms clinging, words making hearts jump and dance, dizzy, dizzy, dizzy. Lips on my cheeks, deep kisses, deep everything. Too sweet to be real. Definitely a dream.

I tell him he's so good. I love everything. Please, please, please, _something_. I don't know what. I want to sing _I love you, I love you, I love you_, even if I don't. Because when a handsome boy with crazy, unreal hair is above you, looking at your face, into your eyes like he's watching his first sunrise—the moment when everything makes sense, when you recognize this is a first you'll never repeat—when he looks at you like that, and his arms are the strongest, and his words are the ones you think you'll remember, the ones you want to remember in fifty years… you love him. Or you love it… whatever's going on. You love that he's inside you, and if you could trap him there, you would. You'd trap him and make sure there's no escape. You'd keep him between your legs, his mouth on your skin, his chest hair yours to run your fingers through, tease him about. Why not? What's not to love? What do those words mean anyway? I love him right now, and right now, he loves me back. I mouth the words to him. His jaw drops. He gulps. He's so young. He can't be older than me. There's no way. Or am I just a little girl? He opens his mouth, about to say something, but my next words are said out loud.

"Don't come inside me."

He smiles and moves faster, and faster, and faster. I'm being fucked again. I love this, too. I say the cheesy, porny things men like. And Edward Cullen is just a man, after all. He wants to hear them over and over again. My voice is lower, throatier, his breathing becomes harsher, he's surprising me with every thrust, all crazy, so good. Yes, I'm flexible, but ouch. I look for a pillow because I know I'll scream, but opt for his hand over my mouth instead. Just in time. I make my eyes huge for him, perfect eyes to get lost in as he comes, and he doesn't forget what I said.

Edward's thorough when he's cleaning up, and while he loves my giggles and breathless "stop, stop, I'm ticklish," he's not distracted. He hates sticky things more than I do. He suggests a shower, but I'm just so tired. Fine, we'll take one in the morning. He's a neat freak. No scattered tissues on this bed. I'm half asleep a few minutes later when a smiling Edward is back under the covers, hands all over me again.

"Sorry," he says. Still smiling.

"It's cool. Next time find a condom."

"No."

"Yes."

He shakes his head again. No, no, no. His mouth tries to distract me by biting a nipple, but I push him away.

"I'm serious. I don't know where that's been."

A little late, Bella, but bravo for choosing safe sex (for future encounters) and caring enough to bring it up.

Edward stops playing around and his face is finally serious.

"You're right," he says. "I'll make sure everything's good and I'll let you know."

I hold his face in my hands and he thinks I'm about to kiss him, but I bring it down to my chest instead. Go back to what you were doing, silly.

"Remember what I was telling you about in the car? What those women didn't think could actually happen?" I whisper.

He nods and nods and sucks and sucks. I decide to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the night. He makes me want to say things he can't be ready to hear. My bottom lip is puffy and sore by the time I fall asleep. Too much biting.

XxXxX

"I miss him," I whine into the phone.

"Didn't you spend the night with him?" Jasper asks.

"Yes, but I miss him."

"Cute, Bella. You have a crush."

"No, I love him."

He laughs. "You _love _him?"

"I think so. I want to be where he is. Do what he does. Or, you know, have him with me when I do things or go places."

Jasper's laughter starts to get on my nerves. "Bella's in puppy mode. There's nothing hot about dependence, Bella."

"Shut up. So jealous. You just want me to depend on you. Or, I don't now, you want to continue depending on me."

"Don't flatter yourself," Jasper says.

"You call me every night—"

"Yeah, we both know why. And if you're smart, you won't show this guy your pathetic side. He's interested in Isabella, the woman who brought down a presidency, not little Bella, the kid who draw hearts all over her notebook and blushes when you notice."

"I was seventeen…" I giggle.

"You were adorable."

"And I didn't bring down anything. You make it sound like I planned it."

"Shhh, I was kidding. Just be careful. Keep your guard up."

"I don't want to. He doesn't deserve that," I try to explain. "Jasper… I think I want to bring Edward to the wedding."

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"Yes. We're _together_, and I want…"

"Whatever makes you happy, kid," he says.

"He wants to come."

"Something about… I wish I could meet this guy before you bring him to—"

"You'll meet him there."

"Yeah."

"So, are you bringing anyone?" I ask.

"I guess, yeah. Anyway, I've got to go. I'm meeting Irina for dinner."

"Gross. Fine, bye."

I hang up and stare at my phone. He's hooking up with her again. I don't care, but I do. And I'll care about who Jasper is hooking up with when I'm married and pregnant with my third child, when I'm sixty and haven't seen him in thirty years. So, always. But Irina… I hate her. I hated how she pounced on him each time we took a break. I hate that she's always around. Alice hated her, too. At this rate, Irina's going to get him. She outlasted us all. Good for her. She better move quickly, because he's so easily distracted, especially when I feel like being a distraction.

At least it's not Alice.

She was on the news today. She forged some checks. Stupid, stupid Alice Brandon. I laughed out loud when they showed her outside her house, trying to get past a camera and a pushy journalist. Terrible nose job. What happened to her skin? Permanent scowl. Oh, Alice. Even my father commented on your appearance. Our first conversation in days was about you. I think we would have exchanged more than a dozen words if Jasper hadn't called to ask me if I'd heard… Yes, I did, and it was delicious. I noticed the smirk on Dad's face when I said that word. I smiled at him and he smiled back, shaking his head.

Why did that make me happy? I don't even want to think about it. I give him too much power. I let him affect my mood.

"Bella?"

I jump, eager and desperate, when I hear my name. But before I tell him to come in, I make sure my face is blank.

"Yeah, Dad?"

He stands right outside my door, playing with the knob like it's broken and he needs to fix it.

"You came in pretty late last night," he says. "Forgot to put the lock on."

"I didn't come back last night. Mom knew I was staying out, I texted her."

"You sure she got that text?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Dad, I don't think it's that big a deal. Not a lot of criminals in Forks…"

"Just want to keep my family safe," he sighs.

"I'll make sure to call or text you next time."

"You do that."

"Okay." I try to smile.

"Bella…"

"Yeah?"

"I'd be more comfortable with this situation if I knew where you're going, who you're spending your time with."

"You know."

"Do I?" he asks.

"I told you I'm seeing Edward Cullen now."

"I'm aware of that."

"How many men do you think I'm spending the night with?" I demand.

"Bella, I didn't come here to start a fight. Don't go twisting my words—"

"If I'm not in my bed at night, I'm with Edward. You know where he lives. You know what he does. You thought very highly of him before he started thinking very highly of me. You have to understand how much that hurts."

I try to maintain my composure. I try so hard that my face is doing these things… trembling. I try so hard that it feels like my face is going to fall apart, and I'm doing my best to keep it in one piece. I relax my jaw and blink a few times before I look him in the eye. I watch him sigh and shake his head. He walks over to my bed and sits right next to me. Not enough space between us.

"He's a good kid, Bella. He's worked real hard, just like you. Now, he's making a choice to be with you, and I'm proud of him for being a man, for knowing what he wants, but he's got a job—"

"And what? They're not going to fire him for being my boyfriend. I don't understand why you think it matters."

"He works at a school. Those kids look up to him, he's their idol. A lot of parents, even some of the school board… Bella, you're a smart girl, don't make me explain."

"Dad, no. I know what you're saying, but that's just crazy," I tell him, because I think it is crazy—that anyone would try to fire him because of me—but I know people will talk about it, talk about him. Talk and talk. Students could bring it up. Ask questions. Mock him. Ridicule him. I don't know what to think. I've brought it up before—what being with me means, what it can do to his life, and I don't want to do it again. But it's not fair to Edward. Everything that happened… it was only a year ago. A few months ago. People make Isabella Swan jokes all the time. Constantly. I'm still a joke. I'm still a slut.

"Sweetheart, don't cry."

"I really like him," I whisper. Dad's hand is on my back. I move closer to him until he gets it, gets that I need my father, and he holds me. I start crying hard.

"He took me to dinner last night. He tells me to stop by the school sometimes. He wants to go out a lot, I just… I like spending time with him, without people… Do you really think… Dad, I don't think he's embarrassed, but…"

"He's not embarrassed. He gets to take out the prettiest girl in town. He's a lucky man."

I burst out laughing. "That's not what you said that night. You think he's an idiot."

"He's an idiot, alright. We get like that when we're crazy about someone."

"Did he say something to you?" I ask. I'm suddenly sitting straight, pushing my father away. My tears have stopped.

"What do you mean?"

"He knows… I told him about our fight. I hope he didn't—"

"No. Haven't seen him in a while."

I nod.

"Bella, this hasn't been easy," Dad starts. "You and I, we were never close before you left for college, and I know the move to Washington was hard on you. I should've been more considerate back then, but when your grandmother got sick and Uncle Billy told me about the job opening here… You were fifteen, I should've given you some warning—"

"I don't care about any of that."

"You're angry with me, and—"

"I forgave you guys years ago, before college. I mean, yeah, I hated moving here, but it wasn't your fault. I'm angry because… I was all alone."

His silence kills me because he's not apologizing and begging for forgiveness. He's like me. He's honest. He won't apologize for making a decision he doesn't regret. He didn't want to be there for me. He didn't want to support me. He's not going to pretend now, even if that would make all the difference.

"Peter, Tanya, everyone told me that it would look better if I had my parents by my side. Small town cop, his beautiful wife. They wanted you guys to do interviews here, talk about me, show off our house, the town, show them pictures of me growing up. I said 'no' so many times, I even mentioned it to Mom once, but she had to go, and she never called me back. You wouldn't even talk to me. I mean, I get it, it was embarrassing, but what had I done before that to deserve…"

I stop, because it's no use.

"Damn right it was embarrassing," he says. "We raised you, and… Bella, I read things no father should ever have to read. I had to get up and go to work every morning, knowing everyone there read those same things. All my buddies, everyone."

"Were you ashamed that I enjoy… sex? I never even… Was it because he was married?"

"There's no use talking about this again. You're here now. We all made mistakes, but we've got to put them behind us."

"I can't get over…"

"Neither can I."

"Wow. Dad, please get out of my room," I tell him.

"I didn't come here to start a fight."

"Then be nicer next time."

"I'm trying," he says. "I'm really trying, Bella."

"Me too. I want to make this work while I'm here."

He pats me on the back twice. It's awkward and we both know it. Smiling, because I guess he thinks we're good, Dad stands up.

"Bring Edward over for dinner soon. And let me know if you won't be spending the night here."

I nod and watch him walk away. This is how it's going to be. He's disappointed and humiliated, but he's letting me stay here. He's not a monster, he's my father, and we've never been close, and we never will be, but we can try to be civil. It kills me, but I have to try. This really isn't so different from how things used to be. He was never warm. He was proud of me, he showed me off, he listened to me go on and on about my life, about different subjects, and he smiled. He can't do that anymore, and he hates it. The truth is, so do I.

XxXxX

I've always loved porch swings. I used to beg Dad for one, but we didn't have a porch. I'm glad we never had one, because this is my first time on one, and the Cullens have excellent taste—in porch swings, not much else. Mrs. Cullen needs to stop wearing her daughter's clothes. They don't fit. And the hair… Jasper would say it's bigger than my ego.

But my hair… it's nice. Edward likes it. He plays with it, and I smile up at him, and he smiles and smiles at me. I flirt and he flirts back. I scratch his tummy and raise his t-shirt a little and blow. He likes the weird, silly things I do. He grabs my hands to stop me, so I bite down on his thigh, and he sounds like a girl. Almost. When he's done whining I grin, and he knows he's in trouble. Except I change my mind and place a kiss over his crotch. Denim is thick, but not thick enough. He likes it too much and I can tell. I'm giggling again.

"I bought our tickets today," he says.

"What? I was going to do that tomorrow."

"I know, but I found a good deal."

"Thank you," I tell him. His thumb keeps running up and down my cheek, I can't catch it between my teeth and it's annoying. "How much did you pay? I'll write you a check. Hand me my bag. I think it's…"

"Don't worry about that."

"What do you mean? I'm dragging you to a wedding, I'm paying for everything."

"I'm taking you to California for a long weekend. I'm excited. I'm paying for everything."

"No." I can't accept this. He doesn't make a lot of money. He's saving up. He's crazy.

"Let's split it," I suggest.

"We'll talk about it later."

"Push us."

His thighs are strong, they feel strong. He uses his legs to get us moving again. Back and forth. I love swings. It's a warm night and I can see stars. He's been studying a lot, and I feel like I never get to see him, even though I see him every day. I'm sad now, so I sit up and climb onto his lap. He kisses me, because he knows. I wrap my arms around his neck and I'm so clingy. God, it's pathetic. I love his jaw and I kiss it a lot.

"You're sweet," Edward tells me.

"I really like you."

"That's it?"

"Shhh, let me kiss you."

"I really like you, too," he says. "You make me crazy."

I say the words I mouthed a few nights ago over and over again against his skin, but not out loud. I wish he could read what my lips are saying just by feeling them like this. I wish I knew if he read my lips in bed that night. Can someone even be expected to read lips during sex? It's hard enough when you're just sitting around. I wish I'd let him speak before I told him to pull out, but if I had really wanted to hear his next words, I would have let him say them.

"You need a tan."

His finger moves along my thigh, making me jealous of his tan. All it took was one sunny day, and he's all gold and pretty and perfect. I have a pink nose and pinker cheeks. He keeps kissing the pink.

"I know." I take his finger and move it over my skin, writing an E with it. He slaps my hand away and I watch his finger draw a heart. This just makes my heart beat insanely fast. If it explodes and I die… I don't even care. What a way to go. On a porch swing. In his arms. Under a perfect summer sky.

A throat clears, making me jump a little, but Edward's arms steady me.

"Sorry, kids. I didn't want to disturb you, but…"

He's handsome, and looks nothing like his children. And he looks so young. Crazy.

"Isabella, it's nice to finally meet you. I'm Carlisle."

Introductions are a little awkward, considering the way I'm sitting on his son's lap… my shorts too short, my blush too deep, my hair a mess.

"Will you be joining us for dinner?" he asks.

"Mom and Bree ate hours ago," Edward tells him.

"That's Mom and Bree. I'm still hungry. Come on, I'll heat something up. Isabella?"

"Sure, that would be nice." Much nicer than your wife, who stares at her precious son like he just announced he has three weeks to live. Poor kid, forced to spend time with someone like me.

"Great, maybe Bree will join us. She's always eating, that kid. Bet she won't turn down another meal."

I smile, and I know I've got him. The way he looks at me, like, oh, wow. No other thoughts. They'd probably be inappropriate, and he seems like a decent man. He'll return to them later, or ignore them completely. I think Carlisle Cullen will ignore them, but who knows? He stands there for a second too long, and it's about to be awkward, but that moment never comes because he's already inside.

"I didn't realize you were hungry," Edward says.

"I didn't want to be rude. Your dad's nice."

"Yeah."

"How old is he? He looks young."

"Fifty-one."

"Wow, I can't believe he's the same…" I stop myself. My face is hot again.

"Hmmm?"

I shrug and shake my head to let him know I want him to drop it.

He does.

I think I love him. Right now, sitting like this, not inside me, not making me scream. Right now. Not asking questions. Swinging with me out here on the porch. Introducing me to his dad with his arms around me and his chin on my shoulder. Like this. Quiet. Kind. Good. I can't remember the last time I thanked God, or whoever, or whatever, for anything, but my lips move and silently they form those two words, and I mean them.

**You guys are fantastic. Amazing. The best. Let's see if you'll like this crazy mess. I hope your 2011 rocks. **

**xo**


	18. Chapter 18

**Thanks to Nina and Tracy.**

**I don't own Twilight.**

Dad says he can drive me to the parade, but Edward is waiting outside, so I tell him I'll just see him there later. He reminds me again that he'll be with his buddies.

"Do they usually blindfold you?" I ask.

He doesn't get it, so I explain. "You'll still see me there."

He grunts, or something. Then, "Sure, sure."

I run to the bathroom for one last look at the dress I'm wearing. I turn on the light. Green. Perfect shade. Near-perfect length, because it's too short, but never short enough. Pretty. Feminine. Simple. Buttons. Lovely. Who am I trying to impress? Oh right. Him. Always him. Never him. I don't need to. I want to. I want, want, want. He wants even more. Or less. Depends. Right now, he just wants me to go outside. I'm ready. Or not. No, definitely not. So what? He's outside. Just go. Light off. Door closed. Breathe. Be calm.

XxXxX

"The one in the denim skirt?"

"Yeah."

I crane my neck. I squint. Let's see who Edward dated for eight long months. It's actually a knee-length denim skirt she's wearing. With silver flats. Her dark blonde hair is long and curly.

"Is she... religious? Like, Ortho—"

"Huh?"

"Never mind. She seems..." Boring? I need to work on building up my vocabulary, but it could also be that no one bothers to come up with words to describe something you don't notice, or just shrug away.

"Nice," I finish.

Edward nods.

"Dude, there's no one around our age in this town. Everyone's married. So many kids..."

"_Dude_," he repeats with a smile, "I'm telling you, it's boring."

"Am I boring?"

"You're the opposite of boring."

I grin. "Is my dress pretty?"

"I don't know," he says. "Is it?"

He laughs at my pout. "All I see is a pair of legs and..."

"Shhhhhh."

He's laughing again, and I feel his hand very low on my back. I shoot him a look and move away.

Edward sighs.

"I'm doing this for you," I remind him. Stop pretending you want to show me off.

Ugh. I think things like this and immediately want to apologize to the man standing next to me, even though he can't read my thoughts.

"I didn't ask—"

"You're only here for another year. You don't want gossip, you don't want drama. Low profile, okay? At least for now."

He disagrees with me—Edward thinks that while people will undoubtedly talk about him, and us, they'll never actually come out and say anything. He doesn't think he could lose his job over this, and to be quite honest, neither do I, but why take that risk? It's not a fun risk to take.

"My dad—"

"Needs to back off," he snaps.

"Relax. Don't be mad."

He doesn't say anything. He keeps his eye on the ugly float that doesn't seem to be moving. I see Denim Skirt turn around a few times, and I guess when Edward is finally looking in her direction, she waves. She's pretty. Nice eyes. Too nice.

But when she smiles I can see her gums. Oh.

Smiling, I lean closer to my boyfriend, not touching him, but getting close enough to tell anyone who cares that we're in the middle of a conversation, and they need to wait, or better yet, stay away. There will always be people who don't notice these things, the people who create awkward situations and then spend their lives whining about them. Observe. Think. Learn. It's not that difficult.

Denim Skirt isn't one of those people. She's taken a few steps in our general direction when she stops for a second and really looks. She pretends she's searching through her bag for something, and when she looks up again, I begin to speak, smiling my words, leaning into him so that only my hair is touching him. It looks like I'm flirting. This town, its people, and the world would expect nothing less.

"Tell me," I whisper, "what can I do to make that scowl disappear?"

He looks down at my face, sort of raising an eyebrow, not trusting me, so smart. Always.

"I'm serious. Maybe we should leave. I feel... I like it when it's just us. So do you. Take me back to the place with the flowers. You said no one goes there. We'd be alone. We could do stuff. You could do stuff," I tell him.

He doesn't say anything, but his hand is in his pocket. He pulls out his phone and looks at the screen. Edward needs a watch.

"This is boring. Let's have fun. Anything you want..."

His smirk is the most delicious thing I've seen all day. Forget all the pie and the hot dogs and even the juicy-looking watermelon. I want to lick it, not just once, but so many times.

"We haven't done it outside yet. Don't you want to unbutton this?" I ask him, and my fingers undo the top button of my dress.

This type of behavior always gets me in trouble, but it's the kind of trouble everyone should get into at least a few times in their lives. The rush. The thrill. Everything being alive all at once. Knowing he's hard, knowing he's imagining you doing things he wants to do, running all the possibilities through his mind. He catches my eye and I give him the sweetest smile. He's not sweet or smiling right now. He's a man who's had enough, who knows he's being teased. But also one who wants it. Edward wants it so much that it makes him a little scary sometimes. It's like this man who was made to be passionate, to love, to fuck wildly and often and in the best, most perfect, most wrong, most depraved ways has been waiting for something... and I think he sees it in me. But he's also the kindest, most loving, most sincere and real, so I can't deny the part of him that wants to tear me up, because all the minutes and hours and days when he's not doing that, he's building. He's given me a reason to wake up to a grey morning and not want to close my eyes again. I don't want to turn back time. I think that if given the choice, I'd keep everything as is, if it means I get to play with his hair, touch the tip of his nose with mine, punch his number on my phone to hear his voice and his laugh and the breaths he takes. They're different.

When he breathes, it's different.

So I want to give him the thrill he so desperately wants. I know he wants it. I see it in his eyes. They may be green, but they're no different than mine.

"What do you want?" I ask him. "It's yours."

What does Edward Cullen want? A blow job? He'd probably love one, but it hasn't happened yet. I think about dropping to my knees, opening my mouth, but it makes me think about what _he_ will think, and there's too much thinking about something I've thought about too much already.

I also hope he doesn't ask for the obvious... ick. Not outdoors. Not indoors, either, unless I'm drunk, or so stupidly, deliriously horny that I let dirty words come out of my mouth, asking for things in places I don't even like.

"Okay," he finally says.

Another wide grin. I know he loves them. When I half-smile sometimes, he pushes my cheeks farther apart and tries to make my smile bigger.

He takes out his keys, his eyes on my face, making me feel silly and tiny and weird, instead of all the things his stare usually does to me, and my face is pink.

"Anything," I tell him. I want to give him the girl he wants. She doesn't stammer and blush and squirm under his gaze.

Edward's smile is big and bright and perfect, and he's a boy again. I can't help but give what he's giving me right back. He's smiling like it's Christmas, and he just saw all the presents, but it's his birthday too, and his parents are the kind of people who treat them like two separate occasions, giving him everything and anything, and celebrating both.

So he's smiling like that, and his smile is so close, and I'm on the verge of becoming very confused, but his smile meets mine. I'm surprised, but I let his mouth stay on my mouth, and I move my lips, because you can't help but move your lips when Edward's are right there.

My heart pounds at the sweetness. This simple kiss he just gave me, standing on the street, on the parade route, surrounded by people who know things. But none of those things are important right now. They don't matter. He's a tall, handsome man who kissed his girlfriend—so small next to him, cheeks so pink, heart beating so fast that it's louder than the sounds of the parade. I reach up and stroke my fingers through his hair, then wrap my hands around his neck. I gently place a kiss on his mouth, and when I look at his face, it's beaming. He's so surprised. Did he expect resistance? Anger? Did he know I'd love it and is he just pretending? Who cares? My cheek is against his chest, and his arms are holding me. When I close my eyes I see us. The way we're standing—my cheek against his chest and his arms around me—it's how any girl who longs to fall in love dreams of being held.

This is completely crazy. It's the opposite of what I wanted, but it's exactly what I've dreamed of. I dreamed of something like this, this feeling, when I was a little girl, and then as a teenager, and even if I don't want to admit it right now, it will always be this vague thing in my head—the perfect man, the perfect moment, the perfect love. Except now, I think I'm living it, or just lived it, here, in this town I despise, with someone who thrills me and terrifies me and calms me with each breath I take around him. But that's not even it. This has nothing to do with the fantasies of a little girl or a ridiculous teenager—it's definitely that feeling, that dream, but it's something else, and I can't quite put my finger on it, and it's right there, waiting for me to remember, to realize, to find it, but I can't. There's something big about this moment. My hand is in his hand, and I stare at it. I stare at it for so long that it's no longer my hand. It's this thing I'm looking at, and it's telling me something.

He wants to be seen with me.

My last "relationship" involved stolen moments and words and kisses and other things with a man who most certainly did not want to be seen with me, despite his promises of a future far away from his wife and obligations and responsibilities. It's funny how the excitement you feel at the beginning of an affair lies in how wrong it is, and it's only enhanced by the need for secrecy. But when you're the other woman, as much as you convince yourself that he's here because you're better, hotter, smarter, more exciting, blah, blah, blah, you have these thoughts that refuse to leave you alone. They're there, in your head, and they grow, and you want to punch and kick and get rid of them, and you keep reminding yourself of your awesomeness—you're the sexiest, the most desirable, the best, best, best, but... you're a secret. And sometimes all you want to do is talk. And hold onto his arm and walk down a hallway. And tell everyone. You get sick of being the other person, especially when he's all you have. You'd never admit that to yourself, until you do, and then what happens? So many different outcomes; none of them that great.

Mine was an extreme case. Not everyone ends up where I did, because not many people have done what I've done. Back then, and even now, there's only one thing I knew for sure—no matter what, this would stay with me forever. My relationship with the President and the subsequent scandal meant that no one would want to hold my hand or kiss me in public, and as much as I hate to admit this, I knew I'd eventually have to accept that. It has only been a year, but what about five, ten, fifteen years from now? I'd probably take anything, just for a touch, a look, just for a chance to feel something.

This is where my darkest thoughts lie—in a place I think about when I'm being completely honest with myself. There, a girl exists who is a little older, a little sad, and very lonely. Men like Edward don't exist. Streets are dirty, and when I look up at the sky, I think I'm reading Dickens and got lost in one of those long, grey, boring novels, and I get that thing in my throat that tells me I'm going to cry. Women are taller than me, better than me; they smile a lot. Men want me, want me hard and rough and often, but always behind one of the dark, dirty buildings. Always somewhere I don't want to go, don't want to be. I still think I'll probably end up in that place, but right now Edward is handing me the sun. And he's not doing it because it makes him feel like a man, or because he wants to be a good person... I'm not a charity case. He just wants this, and maybe he knows about the place, and he doesn't want me to end up there. Or maybe he lives in a world where darkness like that doesn't exist, and the light he's giving me is nothing extraordinary.

I swing our arms between us. I giggle and whisper and lean in and grab. I see my father looking at us, and I think Edward does too, and his arm brings me closer to him, and it stays around my waist. People stare a little, I could swear someone took a picture, but lots of people are taking pictures, and I need to stop thinking that everything is about me. But it is, but it's not, but I know better, but I don't. Stop thinking. Stop thinking. But I've stopped for too long. I've given this man too much. I might as well be naked now, standing here in front of the world, but especially standing in front of him.

Humiliation and shame are things I'm used to, and I think I can handle more, and I'll shrug and maybe someday I'll be able to flip the world off again. But a broken heart? Can anything compare to that? If anyone says "yes", it just means that they've never experienced it. Because terrible tragedies befall us. Things happen that we never thought we could survive... but a broken heart? It makes the worst seem better, good, almost welcome. It makes the unbearable seem okay. Yes, you can survive a broken heart, but nothing is ever the same after, and while it's still lying there in your chest, in thousands of tiny and midsized and bigger pieces, nothing is worse.

Edward is giving me many things. Smiles, laughter, sex, friendship, love. He's holding my hand in front of everyone who remembers him as a little boy, a bigger boy, everyone who knows him as a man they're proud to be acquainted with. And I don't care how that sounds—I don't care if it makes me pathetic that I love that, that I need it. This is life. And what he's giving me out here today is huge, even though I hate that it's within his power to give it to me. But that's the thing, right? When someone chooses to love you, when someone chooses to give you these intangible things that they own the rights to, such as approval, acceptance, adoration, whatever, it's theirs to give. There's nothing wrong with accepting them, but when you do, you need to remember what taking them means. You're feeding their power. I'll take your love, thank you, I'll let it make me happy, I'll thrive on it, I'll enjoy every second of it, until...

Until you decide it's not mine to have anymore.

And then that big thing so full of love, the one we draw on thighs and in the margins and make prettier because it's really not that pretty to look at... it's in pieces.

So yes, Edward can give, I can take, and by taking I'm just giving things I never thought I'd share again. I relax against him, feeling the sun on my skin for a few seconds before it's hiding behind the grey again. He says things, but I'm not really listening. I don't know how I feel about being held by the one person who is capable of doing what everyone who's tried so far has failed to do. Edward can break me.

He can do this because he knows I'm so far from broken. I'm whole. I'm so whole that it's scary. I trusted. I cared. I touched. I smiled. Everything about me, inside me, is soft when it comes to him—my thoughts, my words. The darkest, the ugliest parts are pretty because of him. This makes me hate him a little, it makes me see him as a monster, a demon who came into my life just to take and take. But I'm so willing to give.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Stop thinking," he tells me, and his hand is messing up my hair. I grab it and I'm about to bite, but I'm outside, and there are people here. I'm an adult. I frown. Lame. I want to bite.

"You make me think. I'm... I'm losing my mind."

"Relax. You're doing great."

I'm doing great? Is he serious? What does that even—

"Bella, stop."

I take a deep breath and let it out. I'm not calm, but I don't want to punch him anymore. Or I do, but I can't be bothered to lift my arm.

"When did it get so crowded?" I ask him. There are people all around us, almost touching us, everywhere.

"When you were ignoring me and not paying attention to the parade."

"Shhh. I never ignore you."

"Come on, let's go stand there. Less crowded," he says.

He always walks half a step behind me when he's not right there with me. His hand is always on my lower back. He's always hunched over just a bit, because I speak, and he wants to hear. His laughter always surprises and delights me, and I turn back, look up, and want to eat him up.

This time he speaks.

"I love your face."

Yes, Edward Cullen can break me, but I love taking risks. Whether they involve decisions to move across the country and attend schools my family can't afford, among people who terrify me, or guiding a hesitant hand to the place between my legs, in a white building anyone can recognize. I love them. They make me feel like I'm on fire, alive, capable, perfect, the best. I can't change that about myself. I refuse. I need to try. I tug on his sleeve.

"Let's get out of here. I want to tell you how I love you."

XxXxX

I want to be with him in the dark, so when we are back at the house, in his room, I play with blinds and curtains, and make the room look like it did that first night, and the second, and every other night I've spent in his arms.

He never takes off the dress. The buttons stay buttoned. Maybe not the top few, but definitely the rest. Hands go under fabric. Over it. Fingers touch through it, through the little spaces between buttons, because they want to touch everything they can, so the tiny bit of skin there will be touched, because it's there.

So there's a lot of touching. Kissing. There are words. So many. I want to write them down. On these sheets. On my skin. Never wash them off. Never, ever wash them off, or his touch, or his smell. He takes me back and I'm fifteen. Shy young girl. Blushes and giggles and dreams and pink. Then I'm old, ancient, I get it, I know, I've lived. Then I'm me, and it's perfect, and this moment is the best moment of all moments, and if he stays with me, and I stay with him, I'll look back at it and think "meh" because the ones that come after it will be even better.

I ask him to repeat the same thing over and over again. I joke (well, half-joke) about writing them on me, and out comes a Sharpie, and the black letters in my palm and on my stomach make me blush, grin, shiver, laugh.

_(Isa)bella swan, I love you._

_bs, I love you_

_bella bella bella_

It tickles, so I pull down my dress and cover my stomach, but his hands disappear under it again, and he's pulling now, but not my dress. If I take that off, I'll be so naked. If I take it off, I won't be able to play like this, covering his head with the skirt, then snatching away the fabric, staring at pretty hair I want to pull. So I pull. And pull. And his mouth is wonderful. And his fingers are long. And I scream. I swear the fireworks aren't loud enough to drown it out.

**Thanks so much for reading. **

**mwah  
**


	19. Chapter 19

**Nina and Tracy are funny, and make this much less stupid than it is when I'm done writing it.**

**I don't own Twilight, or the ugly shit SM wears to premieres.**

I don't enjoy lying here watching the thoughts that keep running around in my head stomp over the better ones, the hot ones, the productive ones I want to hold onto. They continue to destroy and spread to every part of my brain, and I'm helpless when it's this late. I just let them. I think about waking him up, but it's not really an option. What I have could be contagious.

Edward is exposed to my words and thoughts and feelings all day. He takes them with smiles, frowns, frustration, disbelief, annoyance, and then more smiles, a grin or two, a laugh, but only because at this point I'm trying hard to take away the dark and make him forget how often I throw him into it. He's not stupid, but he plays along.

Days go by, and he's still here. Weeks, and no one's bored. And if he is, he's a wonderful actor, so hand him the Oscar, and obviously the Golden Globe too, and anything else that would make him get up, smile, and make a speech. They'd want him everywhere, because he's the prettiest, the loveliest, and he'd flash a smile that would make women gasp, and then a second later his eyes would get so round, and they'd all go "aw" and wonder what just happened.

It's not right. One minute you're thinking God, I just want to be somewhere else and open my legs for him, maybe even here, grab his hand and take it to the place that can silently say "please, please, please" better than anything said out loud. But then he does something, or fails to do anything at all, and he's too sweet and innocent, and your fingers are in his hair, and your words are soothing, and maybe someday you'll be the best mom. And then you hate the place your thoughts have taken you, and you shake them away with a look of disgust on your face that makes the person sitting across from you wonder what's wrong, turning around to see what the cause might be. But it's fake disgust, the kind you convince yourself you're feeling when visions of domestic bliss and babies and calm and prettiness enter your head.

I sleep so close to him. My leg always flung over him, keeping him here, making him mine, and it's pathetic how we cling, how we nuzzle, how fingers are always searching for fingers, holding tight. I'm always thinking "he's such a girl" and then kicking myself for thinking stupid things. What's so bad about having a good guy, a sweet guy?

XxXxX

Once he moves onto his back in his sleep, I'm free. Downstairs, there are cupcakes I made earlier, for Bree's birthday. Bree helped. She turned my small, deformed cupcakes into edible art, and then we didn't have enough frosting for the rest, until Emmett told us about the frosting Esme hides in the pantry. Who does she think she's fooling? I tasted the chocolate cake she made and was all yum, um, ah. She beamed. Her grandmother's dark chocolate frosting. Sure. Except I know that frosting... it's rich and creamy and lived under a red lid.

The house is quiet; the lights are off. I use the glow from my phone to choose my cupcake, and one for Edward when he wakes up.

"Are you sleeping with both my sons now?"

Even when I'm expecting it, her voice makes me jump. So in the middle of the night, in the dark, my jump is accompanied by a small heart attack.

"That's Emmett's shirt you're wearing," she says, and the light is on, temporarily blinding me.

I look down at the long, loose t-shirt, and smile. Her tone was light, like she's just playing with me. Nothing malicious. Almost friendly.

"Edward let me borrow it. I assumed it belonged to him."

"Emmett outgrew it years ago, but Edward never grew into it."

"It's pretty huge," I observe.

"I bought that t-shirt for Emmett when Carlisle and I were visiting family in Chicago. Have you been to Chicago, Bella?"

"No."

"My husband is from Chicago. We met when he was out here visiting friends in Port Angeles."

"Edward told me about that." My smile is sweet, but it's Betty Crocker sweet, and it tells her I know she got knocked up and Edward is the reason why they got married.

"How long are _you_ staying here, Bella?"

"I'm not sure."

"Bree mentioned that you want to return to New York. Do you have friends there?" she asks.

"Yes."

"Is that handsome boyfriend of yours in New York?"

"No, Edward's upstairs."

She ignores me and continues. "So tall, all that blond hair. What was his name? James? George?"

"Jasper," I correct her. "Jasper Hale. He'll be at the wedding Edward and I are attending next month. The one in California that I was telling Carlisle about."

"Speaking of Carlisle, could you go upstairs and put something on, dear? You're running around my house practically naked. There's a young, impressionable girl living here, a married man, and—"

"I apologize. I have shorts on under this." I lift up the t-shirt to show her. "Don't worry, I'll try not to set a bad example for your daughter."

"And keep your clothes on in front—"

"I'm not interested in your husband, Mrs. Cullen. I know you like joking about it, but I don't have a thing for older men."

She laughs, and asks me who or what I have a thing for.

"I go for... the best," I tell her. _And I get the best_. "Excuse me, Edward's going to wake up and wonder where I am. He loves these. I want to surprise him when he wakes up."

"Such a sweet girl. He's going to miss you when you leave."

"Oh. It won't be for long. He's not staying, either."

Nothing upsets mothers like Esme as much as their little boy leaving, never coming back, far away with someone they can't stand.

XxXxX

"She can't bully me," I tell him, slipping the dress over my head. I don't need to try it on right now, but showing it off will distract me from the absolute rage I am feeling.

"I'm always extremely polite in social situations, especially with strangers, but I think she mistook that for being scared and embarrassed, and she thought she could use whatever complex she thinks I have against me. No. I was just being nice because she's your mother. And I will continue to be polite, because I respect you and your family, but—"

"Ignore her," he says with a sigh. "How many times do I have tell you? All of us ignore her. You see the way she treats Bree, and that's her own kid. Who was very sick. We ignore her."

"I've never seen her treat Bree unfairly."

"Good. Less embarrassing for us."

"Help me pull this down?" He stands up and walks over to me, but his hands are on my hips and stomach, ignoring the dress. The look I give him in the mirror tells him I'm not playing, and a second later we're staring at my dress together. I'd like to say it takes his breath away, but I think he's more interested in skin and chest and long hair.

"You can't wear that to the wedding," he says, pulling me toward my bed. "They'll mistake you for the bride."

He sits, and I stand in front of him, because no amount of kisses or touches will tempt me enough to do anything that could ruin this dress.

"It's champagne. The bride will be wearing white. And it's just a simple slip dress."

"It's not simple. It looks very heavy." His hands lift the skirt up a little, then drops it back down.

"They're just beads, and sequins. Pretty?"

"Yeah. Will you be wearing a bra?"

Down come the very thin straps, and his mouth is everywhere.

"Ah... Jesus. No, I don't need one. Edward..."

The sucking and tongue stuff and biting stop for a second. "Yes?"

"Let's be serious for a second. Please."

He holds me to him using his legs, and of course I stumble and fall into his lap. His head is resting against my chest, his breath is hot, but he's being good.

"I'm still embarrassed. I don't want to spend any more time there," I tell him.

"I'm sorry."

"And I won't stay holed up in your room. You can stay here tonight, if you'd like."

"No one cares, Bella. I promise you. Dad was on the phone and Bree wasn't paying attention."

"I saw the look on their faces. And who cares? I can't sit in the same room as that woman if she's going to be cruel. Your entire family was sitting there, and that joke was..."

"It was lame, and immature," he finishes.

"Yes, and funny, you can say it. And if a stranger wants to tell it on TV, that's fine, but she said she'd seen that episode, and that it was her favorite, and she kept it on and laughed. You don't expect me to want to spend another second in her home. First of all, what kind of mother laughs at a joke like that in front of her children? She wouldn't have laughed if it hadn't been about me. She would've been embarrassed, or just sat there, pretending she hadn't heard it. I saw how she was when she was watching _The Hangover_ with Bree and Emmett. She did it on purpose. Because embarrassing her son's girlfriend by increasing the stupid volume and laughing at a joke about her small chest and how the President could have possibly thought he could fu—"

"You're right."

"I am."

"You shouldn't have to put up with that," he says. He kisses me between my breasts and pulls up the straps of my dress.

"She hates me. And I'm done. I tried to respect her, I really did, but I have my own asshole parents to deal with. I don't care about yours."

"What do you want me to do? Talk to her? She's crazy."

"No, don't."

"Then what?" he asks me.

I know that when my mouth is right by his ear and I whisper my words, he listens better, and knows exactly what to do, and what to say, when I'm done.

"I want to sleep with you, and wake up with you. Stay here."

"I can't just move in. Your parents..." he starts. "Do you want me to get my own place?"

My heart is beating a little faster than normal, and I look away. Of course I want that, but I don't want to pressure him. I won't even ask him to do that. Still, if it's something he's open to, I want to make sure he considers it, so I have to handle this right.

"No, I don't want you spending money you could be saving for school."

"Do you want it?"

"I don't deserve it," I tell him.

"Bella, I worship you. What part of that don't you understand?"

I hate how he throws words like that around. His best words make me think the worst thoughts. I can believe that he likes me, that he wants me, but ever since he's been saying that he loves me, that he loves me back, that he loves me more, I've been wondering _why_ and _how_ and _since when_ and_ how long will it last_.

"I understand the part where you're silly and stupid and really attracted to me."

"Yeah, that's it," he says, shaking his head. "All of this, all of it is because I want to fuck someone famous."

"I didn't say that." I didn't say it right now, but I won't deny having asked a few times.

"What about you? Do you think I don't wonder whether or not you're with me because I'm all you've got? That you'll be gone the minute you find a job, when you get back to your life?"

"Oh, so you're all I've got."

"That's what I hear from you all the time."

"That's not what those words mean," I snap. "I tell you you're everything, and you are. What? Do you think I'm using you to feel better? Or that you're a distraction from everything else?"

"Thanks for saying it out loud, now I'll actually be able hear you..."

"Stop it," I cry. "I am desperately in love with you."

"Or you depend on me—"

"Who have you been talking to? I don't depend on you. I haven't allowed myself to fall asleep a single night without reminding myself that this could disappear any second, that I need to be able to get back on my feet immediately, and Edward, I know I'll be fine. I don't depend on you for anything."

"I do."

I shake my head and roll my eyes. "No you don't. You have your life. You work, you study, you hang out with your buddies. Sometimes you forget to call, and sometimes I annoy you so much that you tell me to fuck off."

"I've never done that," he says.

"Yeah, with your eyes. You look at me like... like if I don't shut up that second, you're going to strangle me or something."

I stand up and start trying to take off the dress. He's right behind me, helping me. And when I'm almost naked in front of the mirror, his pants drop down, and his fingers are pulling at cotton, trying to make me completely naked. Then they change their mind, and start touching me instead.

"Don't try walking back to the bed like that," I warn him. "You'll trip."

"Your mom's downstairs, the bed's too loud."

I'm pushed against the mirror, my nose touching the glass. My eyes are wild, and they make me wetter, more perfect. Just my eyes, looking like that, because he's behind me, inside me, his fingers on me. I'm small, he's strong, and if he decides not to let me, I'm trapped—my hands flat against the glass, held there by one of his hands. It's not fair. Two of mine together are barely any larger than just his left hand. Or maybe they're not, and I'm just letting him control me, pretending that I can't free them, that I can't move them.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck..."

"Shhh."

I hated being shushed, but I want to do what he wants me to do. Besides, I'm breathing hard and he likes the sounds I'm making, and my breath is fogging up the glass for a second, but over and over again, and I'm shaking, trying to focus on this orgasm. And then he's slowing down because he wants to keep going, but all I want is one thing when I turn around.

"You can look down, or watch in the mirror," I tell him.

"Shit."

I want to kiss and lick it, and be so playful and then dirty, but this isn't the time for playful and fun and sweet, because just a second ago he was desperate inside of me. I hate this carpet, and I hate that I have to let go and reach down to scratch my knee right now. It hits me that this is the first time I've done this to Edward since the night we met. I wonder if he wonders why. I bet it's not something he's pondering right now. His mind is mush now. Leaning against the mirror with his forearms, like he's going to collapse. I think he's about to bang his head against it over and over, because he's so gone, and it makes me giggle. But he's serious. The way he's moving. It's serious. I let him move like that until he comes back from that place I sent him to, and when he's back, he's all mine. In my bed. Smiling at me. Smiling to himself. A kid again. Then when he speaks, a man.

"I'm tired. Let's take a nap. Then we can start looking for a place."

"You're not moving out," I insist.

"Her behavior is unacceptable, and I'm sure I can find something relatively inexpensive close by."

"If you do this for me, she'll never forgive me. Things will never..."

But it's not like things were going to get better anytime soon. His silence confirms what I'm thinking, and I can't deny the satisfaction I'm feeling as a result of his decision to move out. I whisper and tell him I'm so, so happy. I promise to help him look for places and furniture. I promise him that he'll be happier this way, and that Bree will have a quiet place to study, and maybe Carlisle can store the boxes sitting in the garage that Esme wants him to get rid of in Edward's garage, or if it's a smaller space, maybe not. Whatever he wants. Anything he wants.

"You know you're going to be making these decisions," he says, yawning and uninterested.

"I'll help, but it's your place."

"And yours."

"No, it's not like that. I live _here_."

Edward takes a deep breath and closes his eyes.

"You're right," he concedes. "I'm the one moving out. I need my own place."

"You don't sound convinced. It makes me want to tell you to stay put."

"You don't want that."

"I didn't—"

"Don't, Bella," he says. "I know you. You're not spending any more nights at my parents' house."

"I'm not, but I'm also not giving you any ultimatums. You're more than welcome to stay here when you want to spend the night with me. It's not about what I want."

"It is."

"I don't want it to be like that." I don't want you to think that it's like that.

"Compromise?" he asks.

"On what?"

He pushes me away. Just a little bit. So slight that you wouldn't notice it if you weren't always aware and alert and waiting.

"I understand that you don't feel comfortable staying there anymore, but they're my family. I need you to be able to spend time with them, spend time at the house. Holidays, birthdays, the occasional dinner. That means making an effort to ignore her, and I know you don't want to do that, but I don't want to have to choose between my family and my girlfriend. And telling me I can live there or attend functions alone is not an option. I'll leave and find my own place. I'll be making a stand when I do, but I know that my mother will ultimately forgive me, and act like it had nothing to do with you."

"Oh?"

"She's not going to ban us from the house, she's too smart to try anything like that," he explains.

"If she doesn't overreact and wants us over, I'll go. For you. I'll accept that fake, disgusting apology. But not because you're moving out for me. I think..."

"We don't have to say every little thing we think out loud all the time. Relax. I made my decision."

"What if she continues to disrespect me?" I ask.

"That's different. She can't do that. And she won't."

"You say that..."

"Trust me."

I nod.

I'm proud of him, and I know he won't let me down. I sit a little taller now, but I hate that I needed him to make this better, to fix the thing that broke inside me when I heard her laugh and saw the embarrassment on his sister's face, the way his father cringed and left the room a few seconds later. I wasn't able to say anything or do anything, and my hand squeezed Edward's thigh when he started to speak, asking him to stop. I sat there quietly until he said he was hungry and felt like eating diner food. I cried in the car and refused to say anything until he started his impatient finger tapping on the steering wheel.

I grab and twist his fingers now, and it hurts and he looks annoyed.

We hear the front door open downstairs, and Mom calls out to Dad, who's cheerful and loud today. I grab the sundress I had been wearing earlier, and he pulls up his pants.

"Come on, let's go downstairs and ask him about apartments."

"Houses," Edward corrects me.

"Expensive."

"Nah, we'll see. It could take a while, especially if I want to stay in town."

"Craigslist?"

"No, baby." He laughs. "I don't think your search would come up with anything. I know who to call. Don't worry."

"Fine, let me put away this dress. I'll be right down."

"I'll wait for you."

"I know it's still a few weeks away, but I'm excited," I tell him. "I'm leaving my hair down, I think."

He smiles and listens.

"I'm wearing the black dress I showed you to the rehearsal dinner, and the navy dress to the brunch, and the short—"

"Rehearsal dinner?" he asks.

"Yeah they've invited the out-of-town guests. Jasper and Irina will be there, too. Jack and I were really close. Jasper was supposed to be a groomsman, but he's Jasper, so he gets to decline for some silly reason and no one gets upset."

"Aren't these people too young to be getting married?"

I shrug. "They've been together forever."

"You know she's gonna hate you when you show up in that dress. Emmett's date showed up at our cousin's wedding in a white dress, and Carmen was _pissed_." He does this little whistle thing, like, _wow_, and shakes his head at the memory.

"Well, white's just tacky, and my dress isn't white. Believe me, she won't even notice what anyone else is wearing. It's her wedding! And you'll see her dress. It will be huge, and crazy, with a long train. And she'll have a veil. No one will mistake me for the bride. Besides, she's a redhead."

"Slow down, look at how pink your cheeks are. Someone's excited. Are you going to wear a big, crazy dress with a long train when you get married?" he teases.

I nod.

"You're blushing."

"Stop talking about my wedding. I'll think of you, waiting for me at... Wow, this is where I scare you off."

He chuckles, shaking his head side to side again.

"It's going to be so much fun teasing you all weekend," he says.

"Shut up. You totally pictured me as a bride today, and you liked it."

"You'd be a hot bride."

"Beautiful," I correct him.

"Beautiful." He laughs, and I scratch his arm until he apologizes.

"Say something nice before I freak out."

"Like what?"

"Something nice about me," I sigh.

"Okay, let me think."

I roll my eyes and begin to drag him out of my room. At the top of the stairs, he stops, and I stop.

"I pictured you with your hair up. I'd want to be able to see your neck, your face, without you hiding behind all of that hair. But not at someone else's wedding. It wouldn't be fair."

"You didn't picture anything," I tell him, but my knees... and my heart... "You're making that up."

"So what if I am? It's still true."

I throw myself at him so hard and fast that we almost fall down the stairs.

**Thanks for reading. I've been a little blah lately, hence the delay. Let me know your thoughts on Edward this chapter - I love hearing from you so much.**

**mwah mwah**


	20. Chapter 20

**Thanks to Nina, Tracy, and Indira. **

**mwah**

**I don't own Twilight.  
**

"Did you have a good time, baby?" he asks again.

"_Baby?_" I giggle. "Baby." I giggle some more. "Oh, shit, there's a pu-pu-puddle."

"Here."

I squeal. I'm so far up in the air. I need to grab onto his shirt, but my fingers aren't working. I start kicking and it's so funny.

"Let me down! Omigod!"

"Stop kicking. There. Safely over the puddle. No one's wet."

"Mmhmm..."

"You're wasted. Thank God we're home. I'm gonna put you down now, are you gonna be okay?"

I nod a lot and it makes me dizzy. I want to tell him I'm very sober, but Edward's laughing at me, and I'm annoyed. I pout.

"Okay, so no. Come on."

He carries me to the couch and throws me onto it. He's still laughing. I kick at him. He grabs my leg and pulls off my shoe. Then my other shoe. Then my jeans.

"Edward... I'm thirsty."

He brings me water.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah, stop being boring. Let's go to bed."

"There is no bed. We're at the new house."

"I need a bed," I insist.

"Bella..."

"Nooo. I'll be good."

He laughs and starts playing with my hair.

"Edward?"

"Yes?"

"You're so smart. I'm_ so_ proud of you."

"Thanks, baby," he says.

"I don't like that, but it's okay, you can call me that because you're so smart. Smarter than me. Just a little." I show him how little with my fingers. "Littler than that."

"You're so funny."

I sit up and grab his shirt. "So proud of you." I kiss him, and he's laughing, and I'm being carried over to the bathroom.

"Get ready for bed," he tells me.

He's lying down on the couch when I walk back into the living room. It's so bright out here, and I want to turn off the light, but I'm not sure where... Oh well. I give up.

"I feel better," I announce, sitting on the edge of the sofa, by his feet.

"Good."

"Mike and Jessica drink too much. And it's not even good stuff, so... ugh, tomorrow's going to suck. Don't wake me up, ever."

"Emmett and I will try to move my stuff in quietly. The princess needs her sleep."

"I do."

"You're spoiled," he says.

I just grin.

"So, you had a good time?" Edward asks.

I nod. "Yes, I did. I swear. I promise. Stop asking."

"Good. I didn't think you were enjoying yourself at first."

"I wasn't, but then I ordered the wine. You're a saint. Because, God, how boring were those people?"

Oops. I'm talking about his best friend and his wife. But he's not mad, because he's sitting up and pulling me on top of him.

"I am. Don't I deserve good things?" he asks. He grabs my ass and I straddle him. I move a little, back and forth, and a little this way, then that, and I love the way his jeans feel against me. I want to rub myself on him, so I do. Now I want to say "Congratulations, Edward, you kicked ass and your GRE results were fantastic," so my fingers find his buttons.

He helps me pull his jeans down and off, and then I'm half-lying on top of him, and I kiss the wet spot on the grey cotton of his boxer-briefs, and then those are gone, too, and I'm lazy tonight. More kisses and licks and fingers than anything else, but he says "yes" a lot, then "shit" a lot, and then I'm on top of him, and then I'm trying not to fall because he wants me so very, completely, totally naked, and then I am, and... shit.

"Edward..."

"Come on," he says.

"Ugh, _Fine_." But I like it better like this, too.

"Move. Yesss."

"Mhmmm..."

He grabs my ass so hard, then smacks it, and I'm about to smack him, but not really. He sits up and holds me, then just my breasts, then he's playing with my nipples, then he bites down on one, and tugs and tugs with his teeth. _Owww. Oh. Oh._ I can't... But I can... I love this. I kiss him. He kisses me back, but he prefers my neck, I guess. He changes his mind and kisses and kisses my mouth, then he's lying down.

"Come on," he says, and he moves his hand to my hip, tapping it and grinning.

I go so slow, barely moving, then up and down, and I'm about to speed up, but I see the way he's watching us. Watching it happen.

"This is so hot... I wanna take a picture and keep it on my phone, and when you're not around, open it and stare at it all day."

I giggle and move faster. And faster. And then when I'm coming, he manages to get on top, and he's teasing me with his dick, and I want to move it away because I'm so done, but he's not, so I touch him and touch him until he pulls my hand away to tease me again. This time, I can't stop staring either.

"You're perfect," he says. I want to tell him he is, and that he feels so good against me.

"Look at you. Perfect," he repeats.

"Pretty."

"You have _no_ idea. So fucking pretty." He's still rubbing. All the way up. I squeal when it's right there. Then down, and we're both breathing really hard again. "I want to take a picture."

Really? "Well, you can't, so if you want to do this before I fall asleep, you need to hurry up."

"I was kidding, Bella. Relax."

I grab him and when he's inside me again, I kiss him, because I'm not exactly mad at him, and I want him always.

I expect him to acknowledge what happened once we're done, but he doesn't. I expect him to say something when I return from the bathroom a few minutes later, but he just smiles and kisses my face and tells me to let him know if I get cold.

"Okay, goodnight," I whisper.

"Love you."

A few seconds pass.

"I was kidding earlier. You know that, right?"

"You weren't, but it's cool."

"I didn't think you'd get so upset," he admits.

"I wasn't upset. I shouldn't have snapped at you. It's cool. Forget it."

"You don't trust me."

I sigh. "What?"

"You don't trust me," he repeats.

"I trust you, but I really don't want there to be pictures of my vagina... out there."

"Out there? Come on, Bella..."

"Phones get stolen, lost—"

"Forget I said anything," he sighs. His sigh is overly dramatic.

"Stop that. I'm tired."

As if I don't have enough to worry about. As if Jasper didn't have an entire collection of pictures and short videos of things I don't want the rest of the world to see. He swears he got rid of everything after our last fight, and I refuse to even think of the possibility... but yeah, one ex-boyfriend with potentially embarrassing material is more than I can handle, and I really couldn't care less how badly Edward wants it. New rule: don't take pictures or record anything you wouldn't want your parents to see. I'm about to share this rule with Edward, but he's already asleep. I press my lips to his chest and close my eyes to join him.

XxXxX

"It's so _big_. Do I get my own room?"

Edward throws his arm around his sister's shoulders and tells her to go pick out a room for herself.

"Which one's yours?" she asks, shrugging out of his embrace.

"I don't care. The empty one."

Bree turns to me, rolling her eyes in Edward's direction. "Bella, which one's Edward's?"

"The one with the bed. And new sheets. And stuff on the walls," I tell her.

I see Edward shaking his head from the corner of my eye. "I said I'd do—"

"But you didn't, and it was getting late, so I finished setting everything up in there. The kitchen, too."

"Thanks," he mutters.

"Cheer up. Look at this place. It's very nice. Clean, spacious, so much natural light. It's perfect."

"I know, it's great."

"What's wrong?" I ask him, leaving my place on the floor to join them on the couch. I touch his face and rub my finger against his cheek, back and forth, and his eyes are round and a little scared.

"It's _big_, and empty."

"It's not empty," Bree argues. "You're going for the minimalist look."

"Is that what they're calling not being able to afford furniture these days?"

"Edward..."

But he silences me with a look. "We need more things."

"You need to stop being picky," I tell him, for the fiftieth time this week. "There's not much you can do if you're not willing to drive a few hours and shop at decent stores."

"I can't afford those stores."

"There's an Ikea in Seattle." Be patient, Bella. He's just stressed. "On our way back from California, we can stop there and buy a few things. And if you don't want to do that, we can take another trip in a couple of weeks. This is fine. You have a table, chairs, a couch, a bed. What more do you need for now? It's not your fault that it's impossible to find anything smaller in this town unless you want to live in those disgusting apartments or in a trailer. This house was available immediately, and you can afford it, so you need to stop stressing over small things and relax a little. This is very nice, and Bree's been cooking for us all afternoon. Cheer up, please." I squeeze his knee. "Bree, where's the remote?"

Of course I fail to catch it when she throws it over to me. At least Edward's laughing now. He pinches my cheek and gets up to retrieve the remote from where it fell on the floor behind me. I grab it from him and start flipping through the channels. I see familiar faces, and my fingers stop working.

He looks older. She looks fantastic, as usual. His hair is almost fully grey now. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, which is something you'd rarely see when her husband was in office. He has a great upper body for someone his age. It's strange seeing it for the first time, after everything we've done. I've never seen him naked. His shirt stayed on. His tie stayed on. Most of the time, his jacket even stayed on. She's in his favorite shade of blue. A one-piece that should be a two-piece, because she definitely has the body for one. They're holding hands. Laughing.

"Is this real life? She took him back?"

Billy Bush tells us that they're on vacation, obviously trying to rekindle their romance, work on their marriage.

"What marriage? She swore that their marriage was over. The woman has absolutely no self respect."

And there I am. A picture of me raising an eyebrow at a journalist who must have said something rude, or offensive, or just stupid. Journalists, especially the ones covering the local news, are idiots. The dumbest species. This picture is the worst. The ugliest. But I look amazing. My skin. My hair. My eyes. I remember that day. I remember getting ready that morning, mentally preparing myself to answer dozens more questions. It was easier to focus on my physical appearance, so that's what I did. I looked exceptionally pretty, but there is something so ugly about my face in this photograph.

I feel Edward's hand on mine, but all he's doing is trying to quietly take away the remote. Our eyes meet. I can't tell what he's thinking, but I know that my face at this moment is the one I hate. It's the ugly face. The angry, bitter, resentful, hateful face.

I let him take it, but first I say, "Relax, you can have it. The segment is over."

Seconds tick by. I don't know what I'm expecting to happen.

"Um, Emmett's on his way," Bree tells us. Her voice isn't as loud and confident as it normally is, but it's a relief to hear it, because I'm not ready to hear her brother's just yet.

"Great, let's heat up the lasagna."

I try standing up, but he won't let me. Fingers are strong and painful around my wrist. I wince, but it's not honest or authentic. It's me being a coward, wanting him to think that I can't take the pain and that he needs to let go.

"Are you okay?" he asks me.

"I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Yes." This comes out harsher than I'd intended, but I'm not sure he notices, because he tells me we should go help Bree in the kitchen, and grabs my hand on our way over.

They talk about the schools Edward is applying to, and the status of his applications. Bree asks me questions when Edward can't answer them, since I'm the one comparing programs, figuring out the deadlines, and working on his personal statement. I answer a few, and she finally stops asking. I realize that I gave her the wrong information on something, but I can't be bothered to correct myself. I can't stop thinking about what I just saw. After everything he did, she's with him again. After everything he put her through. The public embarrassment just wasn't enough. Her public vows to end the marriage, to go on with her life were lies. I had so much respect for her, but now she's walking on a secluded beach with him. The cameras just happened to be there? This sort of thing disgusts me. What's going on? Did he ask her to do this? Did he have to beg? Is he planning a comeback? Would his party even consider taking him back? Jasper told me that there was some talk of him getting his own political talk-show, but we both laughed at the idea. He'd never do something like that. And now... I want to grab my phone and call Jasper and Peter and Tanya and find out what's going on. If he's back, if he's going to tell his story, I'm not going to sit here and wait to hear it.

My phone is ringing and I run back to the living room to answer it. It's Jasper, and he wants to know why I've been ignoring his calls and texts. He doesn't know anything, but his father will, and his uncles will, and he'll let me know if this was just a random photo op, or something more. My mind is racing. I'm talking fast, my hair is a mess because my hands won't stop, Emmett's here and I open the door but turn around and continue my conversation with Jasper. He's telling me "I told you so" and "calm down" and "he's done, he doesn't want to come back" and "if he does, Uncle Phil will get you on any show, you can talk to anyone, before he talks" and "but you don't want to give up your privacy" and "well, if he plans on discussing it, you have no choice" and I'm tired.

"He's never going to bring it up. He won't discuss it. Even if he's asked, he'll ignore the question, or just give a short statement. He's not going to discuss it," I repeat.

"You're right, but if he does, your name is everywhere again."

"So what? Did it ever really go away? As long as it doesn't happen this week. I'm not coming to the wedding if this is what everyone is discussing."

"Definitely not," Jasper assures me. "Don't worry. Listen, I know it's tough seeing him walking around with her after all this time, but you've moved on. Go hang out with your boyfriend, and don't let him see you get bent out of shape over this."

"Too late, I'm at Edward's new place now." And he just walked into hallway. "Anyway, I think dinner's ready, actually. I've got to go."

"Dinner's been ready for a while," Edward says after I've ended the call.

"Sorry, I didn't hear anyone call me from inside. Did you eat already?"

"No, we're all waiting for you."

"You guys shouldn't have waited. That was Jasper—"

"Why do you care about what he's doing?" Edward asks.

"Are we going to keep them waiting? Bree was hungry."

"I thought you were over him."

"I am. I don't care about him. I'm just angry because she's taken him back. He cheated on her—"

"With you."

"What is your problem, Edward?" I ask. "You know I don't care about him."

"You're jealous..."

"No, you're the one who's jealous."

"Of what?" he shouts. "I'm worried about you. Your face went from calm and normal to... You need to calm down, Bella. I thought you were about to have a seizure."

"I hate what this has done to my life. I don't appreciate being reminded of him, and that stupid frigid bitch, and—"

"Bella, Jesus, calm down."

"I'm calm. Don't tell me what to do. You have no idea what it's like to have to see that. He ruined my life. And when she was acting like a saint, like a martyr, making people hate me more, it was all a lie. She's a fake," I cry, not believing anything I'm saying, but saying it anyway.

"And she's back with him now?" I continue. "I became the home-wrecker. Oh, those poor children, not having both parents around. She's so strong, she's such an inspiration. And now she's frolicking on the fucking beach with him? She's _forgiven_ him? And watch him get back into office, or visit a few poor countries and raise some money for a disaster or two, and watch him be forgiven by everyone. Oh, they look so young and in love. He hadn't fucked her in _years._"

"Bella, lower your fucking voice."

"Excuse me?" I shout.

"Lower your voice and calm down. My little sister is in there. Emmett's in there."

"You don't speak to me that way."

"Bella..." And it's a warning. But I'm not backing down. I can't stop shaking. I feel like my head is about to explode. The throbbing. I need to breathe. But most importantly, I need to look strong and stare straight into his eyes, because he's not about to look away. He looks like he's about to take me and tear me up into a thousand pieces. His face is red. His hands are clenched into fists. He's breathing hard. I know he won't hurt me, but oh, he could if he wanted to. I take a deep breath, my eyes still on his, and I push him out of my way. It's not even a push. It's more of a small, indifferent "you're in my way" thing—just my hand on his chest for a second. I start to walk away, but angry fingers grab my arm.

"Let go."

"Listen to me," he says.

"Let go, _now." _

But he doesn't.

"You're hurting me. Let go, now. Stop acting like a child. If you can't handle a grownup conversation, or a grownup relationship, just say so. No need to assault me."

His hand is off my arm and it slams against the wall behind me, making me jump, and my heart is beating fast, and I'm terrified.

"Edward!"

"Bree, go back inside," he shouts, and I feel like I'm shorter, smaller, tiny here, trying to catch my breath, my back against his wall.

"Leave her alone!" she pleads. "What are you doing?"

"Bree!"

My parents never yelled. There was no screaming. No shouting. I've heard my father raise his voice a handful of times in my life, but not like this. His words are cruel, they're the worst, but I'm never sliding down a wall in fear, uncertain of his next move. Jasper shouts, he gets upset, but it's more of a frustrated whine, and it's annoying, but it's not scary. But Edward... that was like a roar. It was thunder, when you're five. My hand is covering my mouth, and my cheeks are wet. No wonder Bree is staring at me with those eyes. I must look so pathetic and pitiful.

She shakes her head at him, and then looks at me. Back and forth between him and me. But she listens, and she's gone.

"Shit. Get up. Are you crying?" he asks.

"Go away. Turn around." Don't look at me while I'm like this.

He kneels in front of me and reaches out to touch me.

"Don't, I'm scared. Go away."

"What?"

I shake my head frantically when he tries to hold me.

"Hey, relax." His voice is so soft now. "Bella, come on, I didn't mean to scare you—"

"No, I'm not scared. Just..." I gather up all of my strength to get off the floor. He doesn't follow me. I even look back. I turn around to see him sitting there, on his knees, staring off into space, his hand rubbing the back of his head, in a daze.

I'm not sure where to go, so I walk in the direction of the bathroom. I lean against the counter and take deep breaths, avoiding the mirror for as long as I possibly can. I hear "Bella" and I open the door, just a crack. Bree pushes it just enough for her tiny body to squeeze through. "It's okay, please don't cry," she squeaks. "It's okay," she keeps repeating. Her arms wrap around my middle in the same way her brother's do when he is trying to offer comfort. Then they awkwardly move up and she's patting me on the back. I've never done this before. Crying in another girl's arms. Being vulnerable and open and silly in front of another female. Just my mother, and she's sick of it, so my pillow and Edward have been the only witnesses to my tears these past few months.

When she says "it's okay" again, I snap out of it.

"Shit, Bree, I..."

"Do you want to lay down?" she asks.

"It's '_lie_ down.' No. I just want to wash my face."

"Okay." And she's gone.

My face is shit. I can wash it and make it look better, and I'll probably feel better, but I want him to see it when I go back out there. I slam the bathroom door behind me and stomp down the hallway. He's not in the living room. No one is. He's not in the kitchen. Emmett is talking to me, but I ignore him. I find him in his room, in the dark. He's on his back, his hands covering his face. I switch on the light and he rolls over onto his stomach.

We're not talking tonight. I don't even know what I want to say. Where would I even start? His anger? His crazy behavior? God, it would be so much easier to turn around and go home now. Tell myself this is what happens when you date someone you hardly know. He doesn't understand, and he will never understand, and he needs to manage his anger, and... and... And I need to be less of a cunt. But we all knew that. So much easier to fly out to L.A. tomorrow and hang out by the pool with Jasper, and stop pretending this is my life. This thing... isn't forever. It's not sustainable. I have more important things I need to think about, and he's a distraction.

My distraction groans and my hand flies to the light switch, leaving us in the dark.

The childish part of me is annoyed, and wants to switch it back on.

And then I'll leave. I live close enough. I can walk.

I'll call Jasper on the way.

But I'm walking toward the bed, and I'm kicking off my shoes. I lie down next to him, and a few seconds later, he's lying on his back again. My knee starts to bounce. I should just go. We can't possibly love each other after all of that. Up and down. I try to still it, but then I forget and it's bouncing again. I close my eyes. Too many things. More thoughts than I can deal with right now. My head is pounding. That asshole. His stupid, stupid wife. Questions. My face everywhere. The lasagna and Bree and Emmett, and I'm so rude. Questions. Isabella. Isabella. Isabella. That blue one-piece, and his cocky smile. Edward. He thinks I'm jealous. He doesn't get it. _Slam_. He yelled at me. I can't believe I let him see me like that. So weak. I need to remind him that I'm not, but why? He knows. He loves me. Loved me. Doesn't know me. That cocky smile. My face. This stupid knee. If I go home, my parents... Pathetic, Bella. Really sad. Clear your head. Deep breaths. Reach out to him. No, he's crazy. Dangerous. Come on, he's a lamb. He's a dick. How dare he... I deserved it. He's forgiven. He'll never forgive me. But she forgave him. How? How could she forgive...

His hand is on my knee. It's gone a second later, but it was there. I move onto my side and watch his face. It's not even his face. I try to smooth away the misery, the worry, the anger with my fingertips. They stay, but so does he. I stay, too.

**Thanks so much to DeeDreamer16, who reviewed ogm over at RAoR. **

**Let me know what you think, or just stop by and say "hey" or whatever. I always appreciate your thoughts.  
**

**xo  
**


	21. Chapter 21

**Nina and Tracy are the funniest, loveliest, smartest. Thanks so much for everything.  
**

**I don't own Twilight.**

I want to fix this fast and easy. I'm restless. Emmett and Bree just left, and it's only eight o'clock. Edward is lying on his back, and his hair is a mess, and his jeans are low, and I can make the hair messier, and touch the skin right above the waistband, and move closer and closer, and be sweet and soft, before climbing on top of him and lying there, clinging like a lost little girl until either his heart breaks or his body tells me I should touch him some more.

But I can't move. I'm tired. I'm drained. I'm nervous, scared. My hands are still shaking, and when I think about how he yelled and how he grabbed me, I'm furious.

I have so many conversations that I want to start with Edward. About his temper, about his expectations, about his acceptance of my past and my current reality. But what I really want to discuss are the implications of what we saw on TV, and I want to share my concerns, my frustrations, and my anger with him.

But this fear of the unknown, of rejection, grabs me by the throat, and I can't do it. I'm here because I chose to stay, and now I'm restless, and staying and waiting aren't good enough anymore.

Pre-scandal Bella, as Jasper calls her, would be judging me for my inability to start a conversation with my boyfriend. She never sat around waiting for things to happen, waiting for someone to speak first. She wouldn't have spent months in isolation in a friend's apartment. She wouldn't have returned to Forks with no plans for the future. She would be calling people, she'd be setting up meetings, and she wouldn't let pride stand in her way. She'd be studying hard, working hard, partying hard. Networking, building connections with anyone she came across.

That Bella was fearless. She was everything I had wanted to be growing up—probably minus the adultery. She used to picture herself flying, soaring. I see myself on that couch in Jasper's apartment, tiny and alone, in that small corner, hesitating to extend my legs, take up more space.

I need to get her back. Lying here in silence isn't going to work. In fact, I think it will kill me.

"This is so pathetic. Get up. I'm reheating the lasagna."

The kitchen is clean. The blue and white dishes I had ordered for Edward have just been washed, and the lasagna hasn't been touched. Poor Bree and Emmett. I hope they're out having something decent. The food we were supposed to enjoy together is still warm, and the salad Bree prepared earlier is in the fridge, along with the dressing I need to mix in. My stomach reacts to the things I'm seeing and smelling.

I hear him walk in, and then I feel him standing next to me. I set the plates back down on the counter and scratch his arm, down by his wrist, where it's hairiest.

"I'm really sorry," he says.

I shake my head and place both my palms on his chest, and move them down to his stomach. I smile, but he's serious, and his eyebrows are serious, and his arms stay down, and his hands aren't on me.

"Don't do this," I tell him. "Let's just forget what happened. I won't lose control like that again when your family is around."

"I'm the one who lost control. Are you okay?"

"Yes, are you?"

He nods. "Your wrist?"

We inspect it together. It looks fine. He remembers my arm, but I shake my head when he attempts to check for bruises under my sleeve.

"I forgot about that. It doesn't even hurt," I lie. I don't want to deal with his guilt, even though it's throbbing now.

"Listen, Edward, I know you think I overreacted, but I was in shock. That, like, came out of nowhere... just when I thought things were getting quiet."

"I know. I just wish you didn't care."

"But it directly affects my life," I explain, lifting my hand to touch his face. I know he likes small touches, little things to remind him that he's loved, by me, and that I want to touch him, always. His lip are on my skin for a second before he speaks.

"His marriage doesn't directly affect your life."

"Oh, I don't care about his marriage. I don't care about him. But that doesn't mean I'm going to sit back and enjoy watching... whatever comeback he's got planned."

"You always knew it was a possibility," he points out.

"And I knew that I'd hate every minute of it. Watching everyone welcome him back? Because what? He's done _so _much to redeem himself? I mean, as a Democrat who hated him, you're going to resent it too, I'm sure. And look at it from where I'm standing. The mere thought of seeing old friends and acquaintances this week causes me anxiety. I can't go back to school, or send out a resume, because I feel _sick_ when I think about what... And he's out there flirting with his wife for the cameras and planning a comeback! There's such a double standard in place. You can't expect me to ignore that or accept it. I will never escape the oral sex jokes—my name is synonymous with the act—"

The anger returns, and I see it everywhere, on every part of his face, his body.

"Bella, please stop that. It kills me that no matter what I say or do, you still... you're not getting better."

"_Better_?" I repeat.

"You're letting it affect—"

"This is my reality."

"I'm doing everything I can to make you see that you're more than that," he cries.

And we're shouting again.

"It doesn't matter what you do, or how much you love me, or how handsome or smart or amazing you are. No one's going to care if I do great things, or if I dedicate my life to helping people less unfortunate... I could disappear for decades, but if a picture resurfaces, or my name is mentioned, I'm that girl. Nothing you do—"

"Then what good am I, if I can't make things better?"

I know he's not going to cry, but his voice is different, and it freaks me out. His back is turned to me now, his hands flat against the counter. I tug on his sleeve and rest my cheek against his arm.

"Don't say that. You make everything better."

He's shaking his head "no" and my heart breaks.

"Are you kidding?" I take his hand and bring it to my chest. "This is yours. Don't say things like that, because it hurts when you do. Please, please tell me that you're my boyfriend because of the butterflies and the fast heartbeats and dizziness. I thought this had nothing to do with fixing me, or saving me. It kills me that—"

"Bella, all I want to do is to show you that this doesn't define you. The world can say what it wants, but when it's just us, you're the girl who owns my soul. I want that to be enough for you. You're telling me it's not."

"It-it is," I stammer.

"Don't lie to me." He sounds sad as he turns around, reaching out to touch my hair. He removes the hair tie that Bree let me borrow when I was whining about the heat this morning. "Come on, let's eat. I can hear your stomach."

We eat in silence, and move to the living room in silence. We watch TV, and the third time he laughs I look at his face. His profile takes my breath away sometimes, especially when he's laughing like this. I move closer to him on the couch, and a few minutes later he's more relaxed, and a few minutes after that he's playing with my hair and kissing my shoulder when he remembers it's there. When my former lover's face fills the screen again followed by pictures of his wife taken the week his infidelity had been revealed to the world, Edward hits mute, and I'm in his arms. His words, and his voice, and his tone make me forget how to breathe. He'll never hurt me like that. He'll never embarrass or humiliate me. He'll never lie to me.

I'm not sure what makes him feel what he feels about me, but I'll take all of it. I don't know what it is that makes me want to stay with him and makes me forget about everything that's not him, or his skin, or his smile, or his eyes, but I want to hold on to that.

XxXxX

"They seem like a nice couple," Edward says, going through the welcome basket we found waiting for us in our room. "This is like a Happy Meal."

He throws something at me that lands on the floor. Dark chocolate. I pick it up and walk over to him.

"Yeah, I love him, and she's alright when she's not around her family. Wow, so cheesy," I comment, after a quick scan of the welcome letter from the bride and groom.

"She was sweet."

I nod, because it's true. Her hug, and her kind words, and her hand on my arm were sweet. Maybe a little too much, but sweet nonetheless. And they made me feel comfortable and welcome. More so than if it had all come from Jack. There was a sincerity that's usually missing in these situations. A closeness she displayed that caught me off guard for a second, but made me realize how much I'd missed something as simple as greeting an old friend after a long time apart.

"She was checking you out," I tell him.

"And I was checking her out."

"No you weren't, but I saw you checking out her ring."

"What _was_ that thing?" Edward asks, looking a little disgusted.

"Proof that he adores her more than anything else in the world."

"Really? Because it looked ridiculous."

"I can't believe you noticed it, Edward. You never notice _anything_."

"I was temporarily blinded by it." He shakes his head and starts munching on a cookie he found in the basket. "Fucking tacky."

I place my hands on my hips and glare at him. He looks silly and boyish staring up at me from where he's lying on the bed.

"It's a beautiful ring, and honestly, I think it's the perfect size. How else is he supposed to show his devotion? I want one just like it, but without the side stones."

His mouth is open, cookie crumbs resting along his bottom lip. "You're kidding, right?"

I continue to stare at him, and he just shakes his head again, muttering something I can't quite make out before he picks out another cookie to eat.

"Edward?"

"Hmmm?"

I throw myself onto the bed and climb on top of him, ignoring his arms and legs that keep pushing and kicking me away.

"I'm eating," he whines.

"Don't you want to get me pretty things like that?"

"Isn't it too early to be discussing engagement rings?"

I pout and whimper a little. "I guess... But when it's not too early, I want a nice one, just like the one Jack bought."

"I wouldn't be able to buy you something that big even if I sold Bree on the black market."

"Sell Emmett, too," I suggest.

"What about me? Want me to sell myself, too? Huh?" And he's flipping me over, holding me under him, my hands stretched above my head.

"Dude, _stop. _I can't breathe!" But I'm giggling and pretend-struggling and wiggling my ass against him. When he starts tickling me, I shriek. His hand covers my mouth, and he doesn't remove it or let me go until I stop fighting back, but the second he does, I push him onto his back.

"The ring is gorgeous, Edward. Way, way too big, but definitely beautiful. But I was only kidding, I don't care what you give me, as long as it's pretty."

"Bullshit," he says.

"Isn't it too early to be discussing engagement rings?" I tease, brushing some hair off his forehead.

"Way too early."

Of course, this makes me irrationally angry and upset, and I have to pretend he's right, which just further annoys me.

"You should be getting ready for the rehearsal dinner," Edward reminds me.

"I have some time."

"Good, I really want to..." And his hands are in and up my skirt. After our fight the other day, we've kissed a lot and touched a lot, but we've also been talking nonstop. So much that we fell asleep in the middle of long, serious conversations both nights. We had sex this morning, but it was super quick and I was still so sleepy, and I want him right now, but I'm tired and gross from the plane, and I'd rather nap...

Let's see where this goes. I let him kiss me, and then I yank off my top, and he's pulling down my bra cups instead of just taking the whole thing off, and he's clearly not in the mood to touch and hold and be sweet right now, because his clothes stay on, but his hand is in his pants, trying to take out his dick, which he's having some trouble with because he's trying to concentrate on kissing my chest and moving his hands into my underwear. I'm usually not just lying here, watching him get everything ready on his own. It's pretty interesting, and funny. Maybe hot.

Definitely hot, now that he's out and my skirt is up around my waist, and he's fingering me and breathing hard against my shoulder.

I'm crazy, stupid satisfied when he's inside me. I want to thank him and congratulate myself and shout and then just feel him moving over and over. This is going to be as fast as this morning. I kiss him once and push him off me and roll myself over onto my stomach. He's back inside, long and lovely and hot. I'm waiting... waiting...

And there's a knock on our door. Then a double knock.

"Bella? You in there? Jack told me you guys checked in."

Edward freezes and pulls out.

"Just a second!" I jump off the bed and pull on the shirt I was wearing. Edward is struggling with his pants again. His face is red. He curses and walks over to the bathroom.

"You're so _rude_," I say as I finally open the door. Jasper is grinning at me, his stupid shades on, collar popped, all colorful and happy and sweet, holding a bag I want to steal from him and devour the contents from.

"Dinner's in less than two hours," I remind him.

"Everything in there is covered in onions and cheese."

I squeal and try to grab the bag, but he teases me and makes me jump for it, right before setting it on the floor.

"Come here," he tells me. A hug turns into Jasper lifting me off the ground, holding me tight. I kick a few times, but then hold on with my arms around his neck and my legs around his waist.

"Okay, it's time to put me down."

"Where's the boyfriend?"

"In there," I say, pointing to the bathroom.

Edward walks out just as Jasper is lowering me to the ground. The way he looks Jasper up and down is priceless. I think he's about to laugh, but instead he walks over and introduces himself. Once they've got that out of the way and we're all enjoying a wonderful meal, Edward compliments Jasper on his pants. I'm snickering and hiding my face behind this giant burger when Jasper tells him that I used to hate those pants.

"I still do. Why do you still own them? They're _yellow_. Edward, oh man, he wore them in front of my dad once. You should've seen Dad's face."

Edward can't hold it in any longer. He's laughing and has to put his burger down for a second. I see tears, and Jasper is so confused. I promise him it's an inside joke about my dad, and I pinch my boyfriend hard. Twice.

"So we ran into the happy couple downstairs," I tell Jasper. "They were very nice."

"Yeah, they're good people," he replies.

"She's lost a lot of weight, right? She was always tiny, but wow. She looks awesome. And it makes her ring look that much bigger."

"That eyesore," Jasper says. "I told him to find something a little smaller, but better quality. He wouldn't listen. He almost tried to get me to buy one for Alice that was just as grotesque."

"See? I'm not the only one who thinks it's tacky," Edward tells me.

"I remember how he was always pressuring you guys to propose to your girlfriends. They've had a very long engagement, but they were also so young when he proposed."

"Yeah, he tried to get me to propose to you back then," Jasper recalls. "I told him you'd get my grandmother's ring. He said you'd hate me."

"I wouldn't have hated you, that was a beautiful ring. Not exactly modern, but stunning. And I mean, the girl who gets to wear it also gets to say she's wearing Vivian Aston-Hale's ring."

"I doubt I'll end up proposing to anyone with that ring," Jasper sighs.

"Why not?"

"Can you really trust anyone these days? Imagine if I'd proposed to her. My parents... Not that they would have allowed me to use it in the first place."

"Uh, your parents didn't like me either when you first introduced me to your family," I remind him. "They would have come around. She was a sweet girl..."

"She was trash," he says.

"I'm not going to defend her, but you were crazy about her. I honestly thought you'd take her side..."

I look over at Edward. He's listening so intently. Our eyes meet for a second and he gives me the small, polite smile that tells me he's good.

"No, something inside of me snapped when I found out. I was done. And Mom told me to get her out of the house, or leave with her. I was more than happy to kick her out. I can't even go back there. My parents think they're going to sell it. We don't need a place in DC anymore."

I frown, remembering how heartbroken he was at the time. I think he has a very different memory of his reaction to the news. He remembers how angry he was at Alice, but all I remember is how sad he was about her betrayal, and how much he missed her.

"I'm sorry, Jasper. That whole thing... You didn't deserve it."

Edward mumbles something in agreement. It's slightly awkward, so I try to change the subject.

"Is your dad here?" I ask.

"Yes, and he wants to speak with you. Maybe tomorrow after the wedding, or Sunday morning?"

"Yes, of course. Tomorrow's fine." I owe them so much. _So _much. I can't think of exactly how much I owe them without feeling sick.

"It's cool, he just wants to chat," Jasper assures me. "I'll send him an e-mail and let him know that tomorrow is good."

"I'm always nervous around Mr. Hale," I explain to Edward. "He's very intimidating, and I just owe Jasper's parents so much for how kind they've been to me."

Edward nods.

"You owe them nothing," Jasper tells me before turning to Edward. "They love her like a daughter."

"Yeah..."

"I promise," Jasper says, his hand reaching out to touch my knee. I cover it with my hand and squeeze hard before I let go. "They still love you, and they both look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Just don't let Mom talk about her 'affairs' before she met Dad. Apparently she got around... a _lot. _I'm sure she'll tell you all about the senator and the prince herself."

"Oh, gross. Stop."

The three of us share a laugh, and we continue to talk until it's time for everyone to get ready for the rehearsal dinner. The boys part on friendly terms. There's almost a handshake, but their hands are greasy from the food. I walk Jasper to the elevator and thank him for stopping by, and being nice.

"It was a good distraction... I've been trying to stay calm, but I'm nervous about seeing so many people."

"You didn't need me. I heard you," he says with a big, disgusting smile. "That's why I knocked again and asked you to let me in. Poor guy."

"You're disgusting!"

"You owe me. I miss our conversations, and if you were single, you'd be here with me."

"Where's Irina?" I ask him.

"By the pool? I don't know."

His fingers find my hair, twirling a strand over and over.

"You were such a gentleman in there. A good friend. Don't start this because he's in there and we're out here."

"He's—"

"I don't want to hear it," I say. "Off you go. See you at dinner."

I turn and walk back to our room. Edward is in the shower, and I decide to jump in with him, since we're running late. He doesn't even hear me come in at first, and he's quiet and distracted when I ask him to hand me the shampoo, and later when I ask him if my dress looks okay.

"Yeah, you look great."

"Thank you. You're very handsome," I whisper. "You look perfect."

He smiles and kisses my cheek, my palm, my wrist. My heart beats faster and I blush, but he doesn't notice. His eyes are on me, but he's not looking. I frown, but try to clear my head and stay upbeat. It's not easy, because I'm nervous and sick about seeing all my old friends again. I try talking to Edward on our way out. I want him to say that it's going to be fine, that I shouldn't be nervous, and maybe he can tell me I look great again. Maybe with a little more enthusiasm this time. But all I get is his hand on my shoulder, and empty, random words uttered by someone who's physically present, but somewhere else in every way that counts.

**Thanks so much for reading, reviewing, chatting with me on twitter, lj, wherever. **

**xo**


	22. Chapter 22

**Thanks so, so much to Nina, Tracy, and Indira.**

**I don't own Twilight.  
**

"You're not much of a dancer."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"Show me."

"Not here."

"Where else?"

"In our room..."

"Don't breathe on me like that."

"It makes you stupid."

He's pink. It does. I do it again.

"I can see down your dress."

"Stop being tall."

"You're tall, too."

"Just tonight. And I'm the perfect height, for this..."

I kiss the skin behind his ear. He shivers.

"You're the most handsome man here," I tell him. "Or ever."

He laughs and I pull him closer to me.

"Stop pulling on my tie, Bella."

"This song is romantic. And I like ties, especially skinny ones like this... You're holding me because the champagne makes my knees weak. You smell delicious. I keep remembering how you looked when you were all wet earlier, before you put on your shirt, and I wanted to lick the hair all the way down to your c—"

"_Bella_..."

I whisper the word he didn't let me say in his ear once, twice, and he's all, "Oh God" and I'm giggling.

"Maybe we should go back to our room. There must be a correlation between what the champagne does to me and what I want to do to you. As long as you don't touch my hair..."

"See? It wouldn't work," he says. "I'd grab it, and pull it, and play with it. Show you how fast or how slow I want it. We can't have that."

His words make me weaker. I'd fall, but he's holding on so tight. He's so beautiful tonight. He's a god. Or something. He cleans up so well. And if I can't be a goddess for him, I'll be his slave, the human he wants to play with, anything, anything he wants.

"I think Jasper wants—"

I shake my head. "He's had enough."

"He's a better dancer," Edward points out.

"I'm not letting go."

He smiles. Just a little arrogant. He knows it's him.

I've done everything to show him, remind him.

Maybe now he'll start acting like himself.

"I hate Michael Bublé."

"You too?" I cry. "He's so _annoying_. I don't need to hear _your _version of perfectly wonderful songs."

"Right? And this one? It's just too fast."

"Let's go outside."

He takes my hand and we walk away from the dancers, right past Mrs. Hale and her very young friend, someone she must have met tonight. She smiles, and interrupting her own conversation, says, "I'm going to say it again—you look beautiful, Bella. That dress is lovely." Her friend turns and looks at me while I'm saying "thank you" and smiling back. I tell Mrs. Hale she looks great, too, and that the blue makes her eyes pop out. She waves me away, laughing because my compliments are silly. They're not. She's a beautiful woman. She starts telling her friend about me as Edward and I continue our path to the terrace. Only good things.

"She likes 'em young," Edward says.

"It's not like that."

"He was staring at your chest."

"Get over it," I sigh. We've discussed this dress and my chest and the straps at least half a dozen times tonight. "I hardly have a chest."

"True, but what you have is at least twenty-five years younger than what he's gonna be seeing tonight."

"It's not like that. She doesn't sleep around. She's just very friendly and outgoing. People flock to her. Don't say shit like that, these people are like family."

"Long forgotten family," he mumbles.

"Really? Try that again. This time,_ enunciate_. I could barely make out what you said."

"Long fo—" I grab his arm and fake-punch him in the stomach, so he stops.

"Stop being a dick, please," I whisper. "I asked you last night on our way to dinner, and I'm asking you again now. Please just make this easy for me. If you want to ignore me, be inattentive, cruel, or just rude, fine. Wait until tomorrow afternoon."

"I'm not... Forget it."

It's quiet out here. A small group of people are having a fun, happy conversation a few feet away from us. Reminiscing, retelling old tales, correcting little facts, arguing, laughing a lot.

"I'm tired."

"Want me to get you some water? Maybe you've had too much to drink," he says.

"No, thank you. I'm fine. I've only had two glasses of champagne. I need to be sober when Jasper's dad comes looking for me. Or maybe I need more champagne..."

"Bella?"

"What?"

"It's going to be fine," Edward tells me. "He was friendly earlier. He just wants to talk."

"I don't want to talk."

"Why not?"

I don't care who's here and what they know about me. I wrap my arms around my boyfriend and press my face against his shoulder. When I look up, I see tired eyes. I see long lashes. I see sleepless nights. I see the beginning of scruff that I'm going to feel against my skin tomorrow. I frown, then I try to smile, and if it doesn't show on my face, I feel it inside.

"It'll be fine. I can come with you—"

"No, you don't want to come with me," I promise.

"Tell me what's wrong."

So I tell him what Jasper told me earlier, right after the ceremony, when Edward had to use the restroom. For a good minute, the words I heard made my ears ring and my heart pound, and I wanted to find his father and ask him to confirm what I'd been told. An actual position. In New York. Stay as long as you want. If you hate it, leave, go back to school. If you like it, enjoy. Who cares about the details? Of course you're qualified. It's just consulting work. Dad would've hired you straight out of school, but you wanted to come to DC. It sounds good, right? Irina agreed. You'll be back in civilization in no time. But you want to stay uptown—Jasper made a stupid decision, and he's going to regret signing that lease. A loft? I shook my head. Of course not. Irina's hand was on my shoulder. I'd just have to tell Edward it's for the best. He's such a good guy, he'll understand. Jasper nodded. What kind of asshole would stand in the way of an opportunity like that?

"Jasper would. To keep you around," Edward tells me when I'm done.

I drop my arms and take a step back from him.

"Come here," he says.

He kisses my forehead.

"Do you want to go back so soon?"

"I don't know..." The thought of being anywhere without him makes me stop having any other thoughts. I haven't considered anything else. Not the position, which I honestly don't know much about at this point. Not the prospect of making money, affording things, no longer having to rely on my parents for a roof over my head. I haven't allowed myself to think, because he's been with me all night. And even though he hasn't been perfect today, he's still him, and I want to wake up in the bed in the new house next week, and the week after that, and I want to know how the trees outside his window look when the seasons change. Is the old heater we were warned about going to be enough this coming winter? Will I be wearing long socks and searching for his legs to keep mine warm all night? These are the things I think about. I don't want to think about anything else.

"If he's offering this position now, I'm sure he can offer you another one when you're ready," Edward says.

"It doesn't work that way. And I'm not the kind of person who rejects opportunities when they're presented..."

"I'm just not sure you're ready. You're still having a hard time being around people, Bella."

"I've been fine," I insist.

"You've been by my side, or Jasper and Irina's, the entire time."

"I'm _fine_."

"Baby," he says softly, "you spent the entire night crying."

"That's because I realized how much I'd missed my friends, how much I'd missed going out, and just having people to talk to. I can't stay in Forks anymore. People have jobs, they have lives... Things are going on everywhere, and I've lost touch with the world. It made me sad."

"You're under a lot of pressure—"

I throw him a look that tells him to shut up. "I'm really not. It's just... after everything that's happened this week, I need to know where I'm going. I can't sit back and watch anymore. It's not in my nature to..."

"Then tell—"

"I'm just confused."

He doesn't say anything. I look up into his eyes. I look at his lips. They don't move. I look down at the fingers playing with my hair, twirling it, brushing against my skin. They move up until they're under my chin, and then I'm being kissed.

"Kiss me back," he says. "Where's the girl who was flirting with me on the dance floor?"

"Back on our couch in Forks, desperate not to leave it."

He's kissing me again. His hands are moving down my sides, and then up, and I'm running my nails up and down the back of his neck, and then I'm tugging on his hair, and tasting his tongue, and I'm excited everywhere, and I need to breathe. He kisses my face, my hands. He whispers apologies that make me cringe a little, because they do nothing but remind me of his strange behavior. He says he's just a little jealous. He says he's just very, very nervous. He says he couldn't possibly deserve me, but he doesn't think anyone else could either, so why not let him try, because he swears he'd try the hardest.

I shush him and grin and flirt and hold his hands.

"Let's go back inside," I suggest. "This song is sweet, and all you have to do is sway with me."

I'm the one leading him back inside, and I glance over my shoulder a few times just to see his red, red lips. They're always such traitors, telling the world he's just kissed a girl long and hard and real. I giggle and squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, but he's gone, again, looking straight ahead, a peculiar expression on his face. I hear my name before I can ask him what's wrong.

"Isabella, I found you," a very familiar voice tells me in a very familiar accent. I find myself looking into the eyes of a woman I've seen on television more times than I can count. A woman who was jubilant last year, praising me in ways I never wanted to be praised. A woman I truly admired, even when I found myself angry and annoyed each time I went on her blog... can you even call it a blog anymore?

"I told you last year, get in touch with me. I've been trying to find you for months, but you're hiding and it's impossible. Let's talk. How long are you in town for?"

"Just until tomorrow," I manage to reply. "But I'm not interested in doing any sort of story. I'm sure you've spoken with—"

"No, no story. William Hale is in there bragging to my friends about you, because he knows I've been asking around. I've got something better, Isabella. I know you have opinions. I have an idea for a column, and I've read your work back when you were at Williams, I have people who can't put two sentences together writing for me. I'm going to give you my card—don't tell anyone, no business at a wedding, Carmen will be angry—and I expect you to call first thing Monday..."

She goes on and on, and I just let her speak. I think she's drunk, and at one point I want to tell her she's a hypocrite, because I remember her reaction to a scandal similar to the one I was involved in, when a Democrat was the one under attack, but I think it would be so random to just bring that up, especially when she hasn't even mentioned my past. Also, I'm not naïve or stupid enough to think hypocrisy of that sort doesn't exist in politics. And why would I do that to someone who was actually sort of, almost, kind of on my side? And someone who wants me to write for a very popular news website that my boyfriend is obsessed with?

Edward.

I introduce them. She looks at him like he's something to eat. He is, lady. And back off. He judges cougars.

And then I agree to call her. And she tells me I look great. And someone catches her eye. And she's gone.

"Holy shit."

"I know."

"I just wanted to hear her say 'William' or 'Williams' a few more times," Edward says. "Her accent's even stronger in person."

"She's probably wasted."

"Holy _shit_. I can't believe she's here. She was on _Real Time_ last night. Bella, are you gonna call her?"

"When did you get a chance to watch... No, I don't know, I don't think so."

"Why not?" he asks me.

"Do I look like I want to do something like that? Be in the public eye?"

Edward laughs. "Have an awesome job writing for a legitimate site? I don't know, it's kind of like you're stealing my dreams and—"

"Since when has that been your dream?" I stop him.

"I mean, you know I'm into that kind of stuff, and I want to go back to school and study this country's political history, so..."

He speaks, and I only half-listen, looking out at the people dancing, having fun, celebrating. I'm thinking about what just happened, and my mind is working overtime formulating responses to questions she's going to have for me when I call her on Monday. It's coming up with questions I need to ask. Specific ones, general ones, questions that I won't enjoy asking, but which need to be addressed. Could I do something like that? Am I excited only because Edward is? Or is it because I'm not a social leper right now?

People are speaking to me. They're polite. They're respectful. Most people avoid me, but it's never in a rude way. They're not leering, they're not whispering—they can do that when they're in the privacy of their hotel rooms, or back at their homes. Even if this isn't what the rest of the world is like, it's good for tonight, and it shows me that there are people who are willing to be on my side publicly. I had doubted that, even when the Hales put together an entire legal team for me and handed me the keys to their apartment. I thought that was nothing but pity. But this? This isn't pity. And neither is Mr. Hale's potential offer... even though the second I think this, I'm doubting myself already.

"...which is why I was thinking of applying to Stanford, but that's not what I want to do. I still think—"

"Wow, slow down. And I can hardly hear you over the music," I tell Edward.

"Yeah, we can talk about it later. Wanna dance?"

He kisses the back of my hand. He's all giddy and his eyes are wild and he's a boy. He likes talking about the future, school, possibilities. And he's impressed, and excited for me. I pinch his cheek, and he doesn't even slap my hand away. He just laughs. I don't care that he can't dance. I nod a lot at whatever he's saying, because I'm a little giddy, too. I just got a taste of what I want.

So I show him how I can dance, like he asked me to. It's so much fun, just being with him, and moving and twirling and shaking and even grinding, just a little, because why not? He's clumsy, and I'm laughing. I don't know the words to any songs, and he teases me, singing them with a cocky smile. And when he throws his head back, laughing, I see his tongue, and I blush, thinking about him, and it, and tonight, and tomorrow morning, and he's randomly twirling me again, because he doesn't know any other moves, and I'm dizzy.

XxXxX

Wow.

Mr. Hale is still as intimidating as ever. The last forty-eight minutes of my life went by quickly, but a lot was covered. I endured a job interview for a position I had never applied to, and I had to undergo a barrage of questions about my finances, my plans, my goals, what I've been up to for an entire year, and the people I continue to associate with.

He never approved of Peter, and I should give Tanya more credit for everything she's done for me. I nodded in agreement, and he started talking about conditions, things I would have to agree to. This time I didn't nod, but respectfully told him that I needed some time. Of course I did. He reminded me of the terms, told me Jasper would be waiting for me outside, and wished me luck.

"Bella," he called as I was leaving.

"Yes?"

"Have you been in touch with Garrett?"

"No, I have not."

I'm not sure why he asked, because he looked like he already knew the answer to his own question. Whatever his reason was, it still bothered me, and Jasper sensed something was up when I ran into him outside. He offered to buy me a drink at the bar, away from the wedding and his father and our rooms.

"Hey, relax," he tells me, finally back with our drinks. "You've had a crazy couple of days. That's why I decided to tell you about Dad's offer myself. I wanted you to know what you were walking into."

"I appreciate that. I just didn't expect to have two possible job opportunities being presented to me this weekend. I'm not sure I'm ready for this. I mean, I went to Forks to fix things with my family, and I've failed to accomplish anything on that front. Now I have the complication of a boyfriend. I _just_ made him get his own place and..."

"Hold up, two possible job opportunities?"

So I tell him about what happened earlier, and Jasper agrees that we should continue to weigh my options and discuss the pros and cons after I have more information, hopefully in a couple of days.

"But it's settled," he says. "Whatever you decide to do, you're leaving Washington."

"I didn't say that."

"Stay in LA this week, or we can fly back east. We need to think about this."

"No, Edward has to be back in Forks by Monday," I tell him.

"You realize he's not a part of your future, right?"

"Jasper, come on. The two of you need to stop this."

"Bella, all I'm saying is that you have to take these opportunities and use them to move forward with your life. Your plan right now consists of waiting for your boyfriend to get into grad school... and what? Follow him there?" Jasper asks.

"That is not my plan."

"So I'll say it again—it's settled, you're leaving Washington."

"I guess... I'll have to see what happens on Monday, and I'll have to think about your father's conditions, but yeah, I think in the end, I can't refuse a job, can I?"

He shakes his head. "It would be very unwise."

I put down my drink and pick out the smallest ice cube. I place it in my mouth and suck, thinking about everything I need to think about. All the things I have to consider—parents, my boyfriend... my career?

"You still do that?" Jasper asks me.

I nod. He grins.

"You look beautiful tonight."

I roll my eyes, making a "hmmm" sound.

"No, I'm serious. Last night, too. You look better than you have in a long, long time. This is the most beautiful I've ever seen you."

"Thank you."

He grabs my hands, holding them tight in his.

"I miss you. I know you're in love with him, but when you make your decision, think about me, too. I've always fought for you. I will always... Leaving you, being with Alice, those were stupid mistakes, but my biggest mistake was listening to you when you said you needed to be alone last year. I shouldn't have left your side. I would've seen what this was doing to you, and I would have made you talk to your parents, fix things earlier. I would have flown them to New York to be with you..."

"No, this is my mess. Stop..."

Just like Edward earlier this evening, he kisses my hands. My fingers, my palms, and I'm trying to pull away, but his lips are on my wrists.

"Come on, stop. You're not in love with me," I cry. He lets go. "You haven't been in years."

"You have no idea what love is."

But I do. I also know words and feelings like guilt, regret, loneliness, nostalgia. They can all be confused with love. And yet his eyes... they make me wonder, until I decide not to. I stand up and run my fingers through his hair.

"I'll see you tomorrow? At brunch?" I ask him.

He nods.

I give him a kiss on the cheek. "Tell Irina if I move back to the city, I'm choosing the cheapest neighborhood closest to my best friend."

"Chinatown's gonna suck, Swan."

"Not if you're around."

XxXxX

The room is dark and quiet, and the bed is empty. I struggle with my dress, wondering where Edward is, until he's right here, behind me, appearing out of nowhere. He helps me out of it, and walks over to the window. He's in his shirt, tie off, jacket off, pants off. I want to say something random and cheerful, maybe point out that no one else thought the color of my dress was inappropriate. But he's silent, and he's staring out windows, and we were dancing just over an hour ago. Dancing and laughing and being in love.

I go to him, and I wrap my arms around his waist, and I rest my cheek on his back.

"Hey..."

He shakes his head.

"Don't want to talk?" I ask.

No... Okay.

"Okay."

I don't let go. I stand still like this, my hands playing with the buttons on his shirt, fingers sometimes touching skin, mostly not. He's too quiet. I haven't done anything. He has no reason. I feel myself getting angry, but I have nothing to say. I just want him to be sweet tonight, tell me it's okay tonight, help me figure things out tonight. I don't want to cry, but I'm sniffling a little, thinking about my conversation with Jasper, and the decisions I'm going to be making soon.

"Sorry, I'll stop," I say. I know he hates the crying.

"You're leaving me, aren't you?"

**so, was the smutty epov okay? the chapter? your week? **

**your words mean the world to me, please share them.**

**xo  
**


	23. Chapter 23

**Special thanks to my wonderful beta, writeontime, and my dear friends ciaobella27 and contreplongee.**

**I don't own Twilight**

"I want," he continues, "I want to tell you to do this, that you need to pursue every opportunity..."

"You don't have to—"

"I'm not going to." He turns around, and he's leaning back against the window, his eyes closed, taking deep, slow breaths. He rubs his forehead with the back of his hand before opening his eyes and looking at me.

"Tell me what you want," he says.

"You."

The smile on his face is full of amusement, sarcasm, a little bit of madness. Like he's finally lost his mind. Like I've pushed him over. The loud bang I hear when his fist hits the window behind him makes me jump.

"Which part of me do you want? Or do you just want to dress me up in things you buy behind my back and make me escort you to weddings to show me off? Do you want me to hold your hand in Forks, every time you need to buy eggs, or shampoo, or whenever you're craving pancakes at the diner? Do I get to take longer trips with you? I get left behind. I know... I knew you were going to leave eventually, but I really didn't think you'd find a way to leave so soon. I'm so fucking pathetic, Bella. Tell me, to my face. Say it."

He's grabbing my wrist, and it hurts, but his thumb is moving along my skin, back and forth.

"Don't be mean," I whisper. "You're acting like I've been using you. I love you. I can't..."

"What do you want? Please. I swear, I'll let it go. We won't discuss this again until we're back home. Just be honest with me."

I've always been honest with him. Honest about wanting to leave, honest about not knowing what I want now, and honest about the ambitions and dreams I'm always going to hold onto. He knows everything. And he's with me because deep down, he's so much like me. I know this because he tells me. Edward is always honest. He wants to leave. He doesn't want to go back unless it's a quick trip to celebrate a holiday or a birthday. He wants to learn things, meet people, take part in discussions. He doesn't want to be average, and he doesn't want to be stuck somewhere only because his job his fine, his family's there, and things could be worse.

So why is he asking me what I want? He knows what I want. Does he really think I'd lie to him? And if he doesn't like what he hears, will he really be able to let it go? No, of course not, but this conversation is happening, and I'm going to say the same things I've said over and over, even though I know now that he hasn't been listening.

"I hate Forks. God, I hate being there. It's not home to me..."

"Did I ask you about Forks?" he shouts.

"Are you going to listen, or are you going to keep interrupting?"

"I already know you hate Forks, Bel—"

"Yes, I do. It's not my home. And I want to say _you're _my home, but we've known each other for how long? I can't put that kind of pressure on you. I know I love your place, and your bed, and your arms, but when you're working full-time again, and you're not home all day, I... I need something."

"Do you think this job is what you need?" he asks me.

"I need to move forward. Yes, it's easier to walk around Forks, to be here at this wedding with you by my side, but I can't hide in a small town and use you as a crutch forever. I need to go back into the world."

He nods, but I don't hear the usual words that calm me down or reassure me.

"I just want you to support me, to give me your advice," I continue.

"Is this something you've wanted to do? Does the position interest you?"

I shake my head quickly and run my hands through my hair.

"No... not particularly. It pays very well, and I can quit and go back to school if I decide I hate it."

"Is it worth leaving what you have?" he asks, staring at the floor. The words come out so fast, it's like he wants me to forget he asked them.

"You? No."

"Not _me_. Your life."

"What life?" I laugh. "You are my life. Right now, I have nothing else."

Edward sighs. He knows I'm right. So when I rest my head against his chest and ask him to hold me, he does, and he's sweet, and I have a thousand things to say, but my head is pounding. I'm tired. I'm desperate to end this conversation, but I can't imagine returning to it anytime soon.

"Bella, if you want to do this..."

"I don't know if I do," I admit. "I'm _so _scared."

"Scared."

"I want my next step to be the right one, but I also know that I don't want to work for him. Something... something about the way the conversation went, you know? He asked me if I still kept in touch with Gar—with him, and it was, like, I'm here with my boyfriend, I've said a thousand times that that was over way before... Why would I keep in touch with him? Do you think I've been lying? I mean, I don't know. And even if... How is it any of his business who I keep in touch with? The only person who gets to ask those questions is you. I'm sick and tired of having to answer questions, and it won't end. It's like Jasper and his father think—"

"Of course they do. Bella, I'm telling you this because you need to hear it. You cannot accept anything more from these people. I'm not saying their intentions aren't pure, because they have no reason to want to hurt you, but you—"

"Is this about Jasper?"

"Yeah," he says, with a shrug. "You're fairly intelligent, you know I don't want you to move across the country and live in the same city as him, work for his father... I can't wrap my mind around—"

"You're jealous!"

"Stop and listen for a minute, Bella. You've said it yourself—you've taken too much from them. You're intelligent, educated, and there will be other opportunities."

"I hate ultimatums," I tell him.

"Me too."

"So if I accept this job and move to New York, we'll still be together?"

Nothing. Just cold hands on my hips. I'm too tired for this. Too naked, standing here in front of him. I walk over to the suitcase we packed together, because he didn't have one and I didn't want to make a big deal about it, and I find a t-shirt. It's his, and he'll have to sleep shirtless tonight, the spoiled brat who won't wear the same t-shirt to bed two nights in a row. I put it on and lie on the bed, waiting to fall asleep, hoping he stays there by the window.

But he follows me to bed, his shirt still on. He lies down beside me and reaches out to touch my shirt.

"You want it back?"

"No, of course not."

"You're sleeping in that?"

"I'll take it off."

I decide to help him with the buttons. He finally shrugs it off and throws it toward the suitcase. It hits the floor. No one cares. I remember wanting him like this. I wanted to kiss and lick. My tongue on his jaw, down his chest, all the way down to my favorite trail, so good. But I don't want these things right now. I have no desire. And yet, within a minute, my hand is on his abs, moving down, feeling, or not. It's just there. And my nose is touching his bicep. I ache for him, even though I don't want to do anything about it. I think I mostly just ache for his touch, for him to care enough to touch me, say something, want me enough to forget about real things, important things.

Or do I want him to want me so much, in so many ways, that sex wouldn't be enough to make him feel better right now? Because it won't make me feel better. I need so much more. But how do I ask? And what am I asking for?

"Baby," I whisper, like a purr, like I know he'll react in the best way if I speak like this. "I want you to kiss me before we fall asleep."

The kiss I receive on my temple, and then the one I feel just a little lower, on my cheek, these kisses are so full of something, they're so real... they break my heart. It's the way he presses his lips and the force with which he kisses me, and the way his lips linger for that extra second, and the breath he takes against my skin before resting his head back on the pillow. I think if I were to ask him to say in words what he put in those kisses, he would be confused. He doesn't get it, and sometimes I do, and when I realize how much he loves me, it blows my mind. He's the one feeling what he feels, but he acts like it's no big deal. Like every man cares about a woman the way he cares about me. Like every man takes something broken and heavy and dirty and cast aside and looks at it with eyes that would make the ugliest things feel worthy and gorgeous and perfect.

How can he expect me to make decisions based on our relationship when I'm forever struggling with believing that this is real and possible and sustainable?

I look at his face and I'm so relieved that I didn't ask for more words after the kiss, because when he's open and real like he is tonight... everything hurts. Inside me, my stomach, my chest, my throat. I can't breathe, and I'm paralyzed, and the pain makes me want to go back to the day I decided to start running every morning, and take it all back, and it's all for him. All my pain is for him.

But because he's a thousand times better than me, he's the one comforting me. I hurt because I know he hurts, but I do nothing to make him feel better, so it hurts even more, and I cry and cry, and he has to be the one taking care of me. And because I'm selfish, the second I'm calm I start thinking about everything that happened tonight. I start making decisions.

"You're not gonna make it all day if you don't get some sleep soon," he says.

"I'm not a child."

"No?"

"I'm not a baby. I'll be fine."

"Uhmm..."

"Whatever."

"Shhh..."

"Edward?"

He makes a sound. Like he's annoyed, or bored.

"I can't wait to go back... You don't have to say anything, I know you're mad. Let's not talk about this until Monday. Maybe I can blog... write a column... I don't even know what she wants from me... and I won't have to move?"

He stretches and yawns and moves around.

"Say something," I snap.

"You told me I didn't have to."

"Wow..."

"Right now, I just want to sleep," he says, "or drink. Wanna go down and see if the bar's open?"

"We have the bottle of tequila Ja—"

"That motherfucker is good for something, huh? Come on..."

"Oh, so we can drink his tequila, but I can't accept a job from his father? Stop taking, Edward. You took the burger, and the fries—animal style, too! And now the tequila. Oh, not to mention his girlfriend..."

He's on top of me for a few seconds, shutting me up, before he's off the bed in search of the bottle Jasper dropped off earlier today.

Edward and I get wasted. I decide to give a speech about life, and living, and experiencing things, and not merely surviving, and how I want to live and experience and be with him. I promise a blow job every morning if he leaves everything and follows me around the world, or just to New York. He tells me to show him that I'm worth it, so I start, but he's laughing, and I'm angry, which he thinks is so, so funny, and I actually grab him by the balls, and his eyes are big now.

"_Don't_."

"Why not?"

"Bella..."

"I'd never."

"Let go."

The way he responds to my kisses after I let go proves to me that I still have all of him, every single part, right in the palm of my hand. The things he tells me about going anywhere, doing anything, make me soar. They also terrify me, and the bottle is between my lips again. And then he is. And my eyes are on him, and his fingers are on my cheeks, and one finger twists a strand of my hair and tugs so hard, and I'm breathless and excited and stupid, and he enjoys it so, so much. And then I watch him lie on his stomach, between my legs, and I watch his tongue, and his fingers, and I don't care that he's just playing, with no end in sight, sloppy, no purpose, just taste, taste, play, drive Bella crazy. I let his tongue go up and down, up and down, and his finger follows, and then it's in and out, over and over and over, and I close my eyes and feel and feel, and if he wants to stay, if he wants to continue, I'll never be the one to leave.

XxXxX

Edward knows what I'm thinking. Our eyes meet and I know and he knows and he's not happy, because he still thinks parents ought to be decent to their children, which baffles me because I've met his mother.

"Charlie, I agree with Edward and Bella. This is a wonderful opportunity," Mom repeats.

"It's a wonderful opportunity to get her name dragged through the mud again. You put yourself out there and people will come after you."

"Charlie," Edward starts, "I think Bella can handle it."

"I can also handle this conversation. Dad, this is something interesting and different. I realize it will bring some extra attention that you guys may not want, but my gut is telling me to go for it. I'd be using my brain, finally, after so long, and I'd be making some money, which is always a great thing. I can survive nasty comments, I can survive criticism—"

"I don't know about that, kiddo. You need to think about this some more." Dad sighs and shakes his head. "They're gonna be tough on you. You don't need any more of that."

"Charlie, I think our daughter knows what she wants, and we should respect her decision. You're the one who keeps saying she ought to get a job."

"A job here, or somewhere nearby, so she's not bored out of her mind, not a job with the media—the same people who did this to her."

"It's her decision," Mom says _again_.

"Well maybe she doesn't make good decisions. She decided to stay in New York and be on her own last year, and what happened? Did you recognize your daughter when she walked back into this house this summer? I listened to you then, Renee, and I stayed out of it—"

"You listened to _me_? I said we ought to go to New York and make sure she's all right and you refused!"

"Mom!"

"A trip to New York wouldn't have done a damn thing," Dad barks. "We should've put her on the first flight back here."

"She didn't want to come, Charlie. She didn't want to be here. You don't know her at all."

"And you do?"

"I do. I think I know my own daughter. Don't you dare blame me for not forcing her to come back home. Don't you dare, Charlie. We both made mistakes—"

"If we let her go now, we'll just be making another mistake," he says.

"_Let_ me go?" I cry. "I'm not a—"

"She doesn't want to be here, Charlie!" Mom shouts. "Why would she? You ignore her and—"

"You don't even come out of our room."

My head is spinning and I can't even keep up with this conversation. It's the last thing I expected to be hearing or discussing when Edward and I decided to tell my parents about my plans.

"Please," I whisper. And I hate it, so I repeat the word, but this time my voice is loud and hard. "Please. Stop."

But no one's listening. Just Edward, with his red face and wild eyes, squeezing my hand in his.

"Don't talk to me about being a good parent, Charlie. I can't face the two of you when you're in the same room anymore. It kills me." Tears are rolling down her cheeks and her fingers are gripping the edge of the table, so white.

"And your solution is to let her pack her bags and leave? This is a bad idea. She's gonna be back here in no time, and you'll be wishing we'd kept her here. Is that what you want? Someone to accompany you on your trips to Port Angeles to see Dr. Banner? She's not ready, Renee."

"Who's Dr. Banner?"

"Your mother's therapist," Dad replies.

"What are you talking about? Mom?"

"Nothing, sweetie. Dr. Banner is just someone I talk to."

"When did this start?" I ask.

"A while back, it has nothing to do with you. Charlie, tell her—"

"She's a grown woman, I'm not lying to her to spare her feelings. Bella, your mother had a hard time accepting things last summer, and we thought it would be a good idea for her to talk to someone."

Of course. The pills. Anxiety. Of course she's been talking to someone.

She's exhausted. She's a mess. She's never around. She's in her room. She's sleeping. She doesn't want me here. I make it worse for her.

"Mom, I'm sorry..."

"No, no, don't say that. I'm fine, sweetheart. Things were a little, you know, but I'm fine now. Seeing you looking so happy, making plans, such a wonderful young man in your life. I probably won't be back to see Dr. Banner anytime soon." She smiles, but her face is puffy and her hands are shaking and I'm going to throw up.

"Mommy, I'm so sorry. I..." I'm selfish, and I don't think, and I can't think, and I won't start thinking now because my head is a constant mess and if I think about her and Dad and Edward and us and work and my future and the past and mistakes and more mistakes and being in her situation someday and the pain she must have felt and what I've done to their marriage, their lives, what I'm doing to Edward's... I can't.

Dad reaches over and places his hand over mine. "It's okay, Bella. She's fine."

"You didn't tell me... What's wrong with you? No wonder you didn't want me here. See? This is for the best. I've basically ruined all of your relationships. Your wife is a mess who hides in her room because she wants to avoid... us. Or just me. I don't know. You lost your best friend and I know it had something to do with me. You probably hate me so much, Dad. I don't blame you. So just stop... this. It's better if I leave."

"I want the best for you," he says. "You're my daughter. You're my pride and joy. Watching those people attack you, it kills me. Maybe I'm being selfish here, but I'm asking you not to do it because I can't stand it."

I hear a "wow" from the man sitting next to me, holding my hand. I look over at him and wait until our eyes meet. I'm a little more familiar with his anger now, and he's right there, about to explode.

"Guilt, Dad?" Are the first words out of my mouth. "Really? I finally decide that I want to do something, and you're telling me not to because you don't like hearing bad things said about your daughter? Dad, I'd sit in a room and hear all those words over and over again, everything, all the insults and the names... they can't ever compare to the way you've hurt me. I'm sorry, but I don't care. I have a thick skin. I survived. How it affects you isn't my problem.

"You abandoned me. Both of you did. I hate what your lives have become because of me and I want to take away your pain, but don't ever try to use guilt that way again. By the time you told me to come here, I was numb, but before that, I was just sad. And it was never about Garrett or Alice or the media... when I cried, I cried because I was alone. I had no one. And I ignored it, and talked to you, and came back, and... because you're my _parents_. When I have children, I don't know... I'll never do what you did... I want to hold them and tell them they're the best, and everyone else, the whole world, is wrong, and they're good, and loved, and they'll never, ever be alone. I was so alone. Strangers helped me, strangers whose son's name was dragged through the mud because of me. And you know why? Because they love him so unconditionally that when he begged, he asked, they didn't turn their backs on him, and they helped me. I'm sorry it was tough for you, Mom, but maybe you should have asked me once if I had been speaking to someone, if I was getting any help. And you..."

Edward stands up. "Bella, let's—"

"I'm not leaving. This isn't over."

"It is," he insists. And I look across the table at my parents... he's right. They have nothing to say. And if they do, they're still not going to say it. Probably because they think their words will kill me. And they're right. But what I will never understand is why they can't just lie to me. Once. One lie. Lie to your child. Because she's going to believe it, and accept it, and let go of so much anger, because she wants to believe it so badly.

"Anyway, no one asked, but the move is most likely temporary. I'm going out there for a little while because she wants me there, and then I'll probably be able to work from anywhere. I'll probably come back here until I make a decision about returning to school."

"Of course, you can come back anytime," Mom says quickly, seizing the perfect opportunity to be the perfect parent. "This is your home, we want you here with us..."

"Not here. I'd be living with Edward."

I watch my father push back his chair, stand up, and walk away from the kitchen table.

"Dad—"

"Let him go... he'll be fine," Mom tells us. "It's been hard on him, too. I like talking to people about my feelings, but your father isn't much of a talker. Believe me when I tell you this, he loves you so much. He's not the most affectionate, perhaps, and you take after him, you know. I picked it up too, living with him for so many years... We didn't want to interfere... You never liked it when we called too often..."

She stops. She says a few more things, but doesn't complete any of her thoughts. She's trying to come up with reasons, explanations. She knows they can be cold sometimes. I can be cold, too...

"Mrs. Swan, with all due respect... Bella's one of the most affectionate people I know. And it's not just with me. I've seen her around her friends, around my family. When you say she's not, when you try to place the blame on her for your lack of compassion and your mistakes, this deeply offends me."

My fingers curl around his arm, right above his wrist, and I dig my nails into his skin. It's me telling him thank you, I love you, you made my heart burst, you're silly, you're too good, please stop now before I die, or something.

"Well, I don't know how Bella treats the men in her life—"

"Really fucking well, Mom. Thanks. Come on, let's go upstairs. My head hurts," I say to Edward.

"Are you going to be okay? Please don't be upset. We need to pick up Sue before the game, so we'll be leaving soon. Will you be staying here tonight?" she asks.

"No, probably not. You're going to La Push?"

"Yes, why?"

I shrug. "Don't you want to avoid running into Uncle Billy?"

"He knows when we're there. He stays away."

"I want to know what happened. I'm serious. Now."

She sighs. "Can't you use your imagination? I'm not even sure what exactly happened that day, since I wasn't there, but your father walked in, furious, his fingers bruised, because he'd punched the living daylights out of Billy."

"I know that part..."

"Your father defended you," she explains. "Billy had said some ugly things, and I'm not going to repeat the ones your father shared with me, and he's not going to share them with you, so don't even bother asking me for details. None of that matters. What matters is that he would do anything for you, including hitting his best friend and ending a lifelong friendship. Go easy on him, Bella."

"And I'd do it again." I watch my father as he walks back into the kitchen and stands behind my mother.

It's a small comfort, and it makes me feel something warm inside, and also toward him. He stood up for me. He didn't want to hear insults about his kid. Insulting me is like insulting him. As usual, I'm downplaying everything anyone has done for me, coming up with reasons why, any reason but the most obvious one, that they care. I want to give my father a hug, and squeeze my mom's shoulder, but I don't forget my own words. I said them. I got nothing back.

I'll always return to this house. I'll always pick up the phone and call. They will always be on my mind, with each success and failure, because no one's opinion will matter more, no one's disappointment will destroy me more, no one's praise will thrill me more. I will always hope that someday I'll be enveloped in warmth and love and sweet words, and they'll be the source of all of it. And when they fail me again, I'll turn to the man who is holding my hand. And when I fail them again, I hope they'll at least have each other.

XxXxX

It's nice out, which is why we're here. After a week of endless rain, I didn't have to beg Edward to get out of bed early and join me outside. He came willingly. We don't have a swing out here like his parents do, but I bought an old rocking chair I found at a garage sale, because it would look funny out here, and we're not old enough to be rocking away on the porch. It amused Edward, and it's amusing him now, sitting here, rocking back and forth in his underwear and an old t-shirt that's so, so thin, and an almost-beard and too-long hair. He pulls me down, and I'm on his lap, and we need to be careful, but who cares? Falling off the chair would be a memory, and we'd talk about it and remember it and giggle and argue and I love him a lot, the man sitting under me. I love him fiercely, and it's the kind of love that's stupid and blind. And I let myself get here. I did it willingly. It was so, so easy.

That's what we talk about a lot when we're saying silly, deep, ridiculous, amazing things to each other. How easy it was. I know he was a little obsessed. He knows I was incredibly lonely and desperate and sad. Maybe we used each other. Maybe he wanted to piss his mother off, rebel. Maybe I needed a distraction. Maybe, but who cares? At some point, somewhere, very, very quickly, maybe way too fast, it happened. It's strange, and thinking about it makes me anxious, but I love him. Like, actual love. Like, I would do anything. And it's a big deal, and it exists somewhere so deep inside me, so deep that it's a part of me. So I get it now. You care so much that it's all about him. Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, he's my first thought. And it's not about sex, or wanting someone, or missing them, or wondering if they're up to no good, or why they haven't called. It's more of a... I'm awake. It's morning. How is he? I want this to be the best day for him. If he smiles, I win. I get to try and make him smile.

Maybe I'm being silly and feeling too much because I'll be on the opposite side of the country soon. New job. New people. Alone again. I've changed my mind about it at least twenty times since I accepted the offer. And each time I told him I couldn't do it, he changed my mind right back. I could. I can. I will. And if it sucks, and if I fail, I get to run back and throw myself into his arms. And if I succeed, or even just survive, I'll be doing something for our life, the future we're always vaguely referring to. He tells me his successes belong to me, and he'll gladly share my failures, and that it's easy to tell me that because he doesn't anticipate any. Sweet words are easy to say when your girlfriend is so desperate to hear them, feel them, make them part of her reality. But the honesty in his eyes? You can't fake that.

"It's chilly out here," I tell him.

"Let's go back inside."

"No... the sun is gorgeous."

"What sun?" He laughs. "Look at the clouds."

"No rain means sun. Clouds don't exist."

He smiles big, and I'm proud because he likes my words.

"I need to pack..."

"I can drive you over to your parents'..."

"Don't make me do this," I say in the smallest voice.

He smacks my butt and pushes me off him. "Come on, inside."

Inside is nice, because he can do things here that no one will know about. Like the way he looks when he pulls off the thin, thin t-shirt. No one knows what that looks like. The movement of his muscles, the mess that is his hair after he does that last yank and throws the t-shirt aside. The kisses I place all over his chest, the spot on his shoulder I bite down on when I'm riding him and I'm about to come. Always the same place. And I can look up from there and see his face. And I always have to reach out and touch it. And my heart aches when I think about how far I'm going and it makes no sense. Why? Why leave this for something that will never compare?

"Because this will still be here when you get back. And this is going to come out to visit you. And you'll be back soon enough. Come on, Bella, don't do this again."

"I'm so nervous..."

He runs his hands up and down my back. "I'm nervous for you."

"You're supposed to say there's nothing to be nervous about."

"There's nothing—" he starts.

"It could be bad. Really bad. Like, so bad. Especially at the beginning. My first... they're going to be brutal."

"What do you want me to say?"

He's said so much, he's out of words. I know. I get it.

"Say you'll have things to say when I call crying," I tell him.

"Here we go again..."

"Fine, I'll stop, because I know it's going to be okay. Something inside me... you know when you know? I have a good feeling about this."

"Great. Do you have a good feeling about me getting into a decent grad school?" he asks with a laugh.

"The best feeling... If you ever send in your stuff... early... do it early..."

"I will, this week, promise."

I'm pretty sure I'll be the one submitting his applications right before I leave. It's fine. I love doing that stuff. And it's the sort of stuff that makes him sad. He has a pretty sad face, but I don't like the way it makes my chest ache. I wrap my arms around his neck and smile at the way he's staring at my chest, the way his hands always end up there, how his fingers never leave.

"People are gonna be like, 'What does your boyfriend do?' And I'll be all, 'He's a historian. He knows everything about everything that's ever happened...' And you'll wear tweed. And maybe glasses. And I'll just make sure you've got everything you need for a wonderful day at work, teaching, molding young minds. Professor Cullen... mmhmmm."

"I like when you tell me stories," he says.

"Maybe you can write a book about me. A historian's perspective."

"Always you, you, you."

"Me, me, me."

"You," he whispers, and his mouth is on my skin. "So what would I say? In my book? What's it about?"

"I don't know. You're the one who's into history. Blah, blah, big, huge scandal, impeachment proceedings, resignation, blah, blah. And there was a girl..."

"Tell me about the girl."

"Hmmm..." I touch my nose to his, then kiss his mouth. Smack. So good. "She was born... she grew up, but not too much... she met Edward Cullen... the end."

"That's it?" he asks.

"My life begins and ends with you."

He's quiet, but his arms are strong and his body is warm, and his eyes are closed, and I hope my words made his day. Minutes pass, and I want to lie down with him next to me, just lie around and be nothing, do nothing, say nothing. So when he moves me off his lap and walks out of the bedroom, I'm annoyed. I complain, and he shuts me up. He'll be right back. I believe him. And then he's back. Still naked. Carrying his phone and a Sharpie and my laptop.

"What are you up to?" I ask.

"I have nothing to give you right now, but I want things from you."

"What?"

"I shouldn't be asking, so pretend I didn't, but..." he takes my hand, takes the cap off the Sharpie, and I inhale deep and good, of course, and while I'm sniffing and being ridiculous, he's doing stuff. I finally stop and look, and on my finger, or around it, he's drawn a circle. And he's drawing other stuff, but he's so confused and pink and can't draw, so I stop him.

"Uhh..."

"Come on, you liked it the last time I wrote on you," he says, his voice all weird.

"Is this a ring, Edward Cullen?"

"Yeah, and look, it's huge."

I giggle. My heart is pounding so fast and hard, and I'm dizzy, dizzy, dizzy.

"You're crazy."

"I already told you," he says, "pretend I didn't do this."

"Yeah, I have to. Because, wow, otherwise I'd have to say 'yes' and you'll be running for the hills. I hate hills. I'd never run after you."

He finally looks up, into my eyes.

"So just a sweet gesture, right?" he says, kissing the finger he drew on.

"Yes."

"But you would've said 'yes' if it had been anything more..."

"Yes."

"And I would have had to leave everything to come with you and be with you."

"Yes."

"Ask me," Edward says.

Okay. My hands are shaking, but I do.

"Please."

"Yeah?"

I nod. "Maybe not right away," I tell him, "but once you figure things out? Once you know where you're going to be next year... I hate asking, Edward, because you have a job, your life..."

"Just ask." He gulps. His Adam's apple moves up and down. He's nervous and terrified and young and wonderful. "There's pretty much nothing I wouldn't do..."

"When you're ready, when you decide, I want you to come to me. And if you're not, but you miss me, I'll come back. And this better not fade," I tell him, pointing to my finger.

He bites my hand, bites the finger, draws some more, kisses me, kisses me again, and a lot. He stops and says something about my laptop and dates and flights. It's sweet, because I've been nagging him about booking his first trip out to see me. I tell him later, not now, draw on me again, please. We're laughing and playing. It hurts less now. I think less now. I smile when he says something about the night we met.

"Best night of my life," he tells me.

And he probably believes it.

I think I'm still waiting for the best night of my life, which means I'm considering a future, a life, something more than the present and the ugly past. And I have no doubt that Edward is there. And I want to be where he is. He'll be there, and I won't know it's happening, that it's that night, the best night of my life, but he'll remember every detail. And when I'm too scared to look back because my mind always goes too far into the past and gets lost in the dark, he'll look back for me, and he'll come up with a memory, or two, and I'll remember. And I'll smile. And the past will be bearable.

"Of course it was," I reply. "You met the love of your life, mother of any and all future children—all geniuses and prodigies, by the way. The best sex you'd ever had, will ever have... Your best friend, lover, confidante... So lucky."

"Her hair smelled of cigarettes, the gestures she made were obscene—"

"So _vulgar_," I add. "But—"

"But when I woke up the next morning, and saw her face, and the way your nose and your lips... right there... yeah... and your shoulder, the skin..."

"You thought, 'that's the girl I'll fool with a Sharpie ring and sweet, sweet lies.'"

I'm shrieking by the end of the sentence, because the Sharpie is back and it's all over my skin, and words make no sense, and then they do, but only when I write six letters that make up two words on my belly. A request. It makes him laugh, and then he's all serious, and he's inside me, and I can pretend he did ask, and my ring is real, and who cares, because he's coming to New York, and then I'll go wherever he wants to take me, and this rhythm is perfect. Perfect. It's time to stop thinking and just listen to breathing and grunts and wait for the occasional word. The sun isn't out, but the sheets are soft, and I hold him close with legs, arms, and lips, and I'll have to tell him when it's over... this is my favorite morning. The best morning of my life.

**so this is the last chapter. ****i wanted to thank all of you who read this, rec'd it, shared your thoughts. and thanks so much to the people who put up with the nonstop blah blah bs i kept throwing at them while i was writing this: nina, tracy, indira, hj, ebs, lisa, michele, lauren, belle, shelley, tor. and thanks to monica l because i'm sure she's awesome and i've been obsessed with her since i was, like, fourteen, and talking about my obsession made me write a story and it's been fun.**

**writing this chapter drove me a little crazy, but I'll probably be back with something new really soon. let me know your thoughts. i'd love to hear from you.**

**thanks so much.**

**xo**


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